


Ego Sum Tuo

by maxcellwire



Category: Muse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, F/M, Historical, M/M, Slavery, historical inaccuracy probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxcellwire/pseuds/maxcellwire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tu ne cede malis sed contra audentior ito</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I (Initium)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my NanoWrimo 2013. One day I will actually write something original and get it published hahahahahaa. I think it's pretty obvious who Matt and Dom are, so hopefully the slight change in names won't be a problem. Oh, also, Ego Sum Tuo is a rough approximation of 'I Belong To You' in Latin, although I'm not too sure of the grammar. It'd look weird if I asked my teacher to check it over for me, though.

As the fog lifted over the heights and hills of the city of Rome, a young man could be seen walking alone. He hurried quickly through the streets, turning around the many corners and slipping down narrow side roads, head bent down as he focused on his destination. It was but the second hour of the day, and the rest of the city was only just waking, a few noises from inside the  _insulae_  he was passing alerting him to the sound of company. He picked up his pace, his sandalled feet quickly crossing the stones, the sound of leather slapping against rock resounding through the streets.

He didn’t want to get caught by the rush. He had figured that, if he didn’t go out too late, he would be safe enough leaving the house without somebody big and strong to protect him, and so he had left Postumus at home, with the intent of getting a new slave to look after him on the way back, by which point the whole city would be breathing a morning sigh and stumbling out of bed.

As he reached the end of the street, the houses began to fall away until he was standing on the Field of Mars, the fog here still low on the ground, the grass beneath his feet wet with dew. He turned around and looked at the city behind him, at the magnificent structures on the tops of the hills and the half-built Aqua Claudia, at all the houses, mismatched for size and burning amber under the first rays of sunlight, at the sky that was just opening above the city, an all-consuming blue. He smiled to himself and continued on his way, passing a few tents that were sprung up around the edges of the field, hearing the jeering and jostling of the warriors inside, and scurried along. Through the slowly lifting fog he could see a few people milling around and he made a beeline for the man who looked to be in control of the whole ordeal, who was pacing in front of a stand and barking orders at people.

“ _Salve_! Good morning to you, Citizen!” he called as the young man approached him. “Are you here to peruse my goods?”

“Yes, I think I am. Could you possibly show me what you have?”

“But of course.” The man placed a hand lightly at the small of the young man’s back and urged him forwards towards the stand. There he could see several terrified men and women standing naked as the day they were born, bound in shackles and linked together by chains. There were people of all kinds here; big, strong, dark-skinned men with bulging muscles and confident, hard-set jaws; slender young women staring at their feet, their long hair tumbling over their breasts as they crossed their legs to protect their modesty; some really small boys who could only be twelve, nervously shuffling next to the adults, who refused to pay any attention to them. As they watched, one of the grandly-dressed men in the back stepped forwards and hissed something into one of the girls’ ears. She bit her lip, looking away, and he prodded her with a stick. Startled, her eyes flew wide and she lifted her head up, adopting a posture similar to the men’s. As soon as the man behind her turned away, however, she returned to her original position, hunched over and quietly crying.

“This is your lot?” the young man asked, screwing his nose up as he took them in. He brushed a stray lock of golden-blonde hair behind his ear. What a bedraggled bunch of slaves! “Why, they all look miserable! How can you expect me to find any use out of one of them?”

The dealer cleared his throat, his eye twitching in irritation as he took in a deep breath and tried to remain polite as his mother had taught him to be.

“We have to make sure we keep them in line, obviously. If the slaves appear miserable I should put it down to their countenance, not our treatment. And it doesn’t matter what expression they wear on their face, surely, but how strong and capable of working they are? Here, look,” he pointing at one of the large men, prodding the muscles of his arms. They didn’t budge, but the man flexed his arm as he had been taught to and the muscles leapt beneath his dark skin, “wouldn’t he make a fine bodyguard for somebody such as yourself? I don’t think you would ever have to fear again if he were around you.”

“Perhaps. I would like to have a look around by myself, if that’s quite alright with you.”

“Of course,” he said, but the young man had already walked towards the end of the stand. He hurried after him, leaning over his shoulder and breathing on his neck so he could watch his every move. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, do you have any slaves of your own already?”

“Yes, I have two, but I inherited them from my grandfather. I am not sure that they are particularly grateful for my presence in the house. I think they thought that my old grandfather would free them upon his death. Foolish slaves!” he chuckled, moving on from the quaking boys at the end of the stand. He had no use for somebody so small and young, barely half his age. They all breathed a sigh of relief as he turned his back on them, but it was much too early in the morning for them to be thanking the gods just yet.

“Well, all you need to do is establish your authority and they will be loyal to you in no time, I’m sure. And if you can’t get them to behave, you know I would always be happy to take them off your hands. Once this lot have sold, I must wait for more to be brought back from elsewhere. And you know my supplies do dwindle occasionally...this business is difficult, you know. After all, there are only so many slaves in the world. And I’m not the only person selling them out there.”

“Yes, yes, whatever.” The young man waved his hand dismissively, scanning the line of bodies for one who looked strong and able enough to work around the house. They all wore a wooden plaque secured around their neck with rope, on which the slaves had been described to the best extent possible on such a small area. “This lot is from Britannia, you say?”

The dealer nodded. “Indeed, many of them are. Not those at the end there-they are from Carthage, of course-but the rest of them are fresh from over the sea. Beautiful, aren’t they?” The young man tilted his head in slight agreement. He continued to peer at the writing, looking for something he was particularly interested in. He already had a young slave-girl to do the cooking and cleaning in his house, and Postumus was essentially his bodyguard. What he really needed was someone to do the jobs that had been left to him recently, someone to do the tasks required of him that he couldn’t be bothered with.

“Are none of them educated?”

“Well, you see, education over in Britannia is different, or so I’ve heard. So if you were to ask them something you might have been taught in your good Roman school, that might not have been of importance to them, so-“

“Do they even speak Latin?” He cut him off, too tired to listen to the dealer’s ramblings. He knew well the tricks of a salesman and didn’t plan to fall for them. “Be honest with me.”

The dealer paused, tugging the hem of his tunic and squeezing his eyes shut. How come his customers were always difficult? And this was the first of the day! Jupiter, have mercy.

“Some of them do not,” he spoke through gritted teeth. “I can show you which do, if you would like?”

“Please. I do not think I can handle a slave who does not understand my commands.” The dealer nodded in understanding, cursing his luck. He strolled along the front of the stand, pointing at a few clusters of men and women and then standing back with his hands clasped, waiting for the man to take his pick.

“May I touch?” he asked, turning to the dealer with an inquiring look on his face. A strand of hair fell in his eyes and he swept it away.

“As long as you do not harm them.”

“I would never.” He lifted some of the plaques so that he could read them more clearly, the writing fading away on some. He sighed as he passed them, effectively dismissing each one whose plaque he left untouched. This one was too expensive, this one was uneducated, this one just seemed annoying, that one wasn’t presentable enough, this one would never survive in a house like his. It had to be just right and, as he got closer to the end of the line, the prospects of finding that one slave were looking slim.

After standing back with his arms folded, his foot tapping the ground in irritation, the dealer stepped forward beside the man and pointed at one of the slaves in the middle.

“How about this one?” he suggested, at which the man’s head snapped up and fear painted a mask across his face. “Educated, speaks Latin, and he’s certainly able enough. Nimble, quick; I’d say he’s just what you need.” The blonde man stepped forwards and looked at his plaque.

“He’s 22, you say? That’s not even my age!”

“Then he shall understand your needs and requirements better! I should think you would get along well with somebody of your own age. You could find some companionship in him, at least.” The young citizen pursed his lips as he scanned the slave from head to toe, taking in his dark hair, pale skin, angular features and trembling, skinny limbs. He wrapped his hand around one wrist and raised an eyebrow.

“Look how small he is! How could I possibly find use for somebody so scrawny?” he exclaimed, waving the arm around in his hand. The slave hung his head, his cheeks burning in shame as he let himself be manipulated.

“He may look small, but he is strong all the same. Must they all be huge protectors? How about somebody just to do the household duties?”  
“I suppose he does look like he could handle that. He’s hard-working, did you say?”

“Oh, always! Always eager to help and take on any duties he’s asked to do. Even enthusiastic sometimes, which is more than I can say for  _some_  of this lot.” He grinned at the man, now able to relax as he realised he was getting a deal.

“How much do you want for him?”

“Three thousand  _sesterces_."

“Three  _thousand_? I think not! He is far too small to be worth that much money.” The slave, whose head had lifted with hope when the young man turned his back on him, looked away, catching the eye of a woman down the line. She gave him a sympathetic look and he offered a weak smile in return as the men in front of him continued to argue prices.

“Two thousand five hundred, then. Is that a deal?”

“You’re a fraudster, I am sure,” the man muttered, pulling out a purse of coins nevertheless. He poured them out into his hand, counting them out so that he didn’t give the man an  _as_  more. As he handed the coins over, the silver sliding into the dealer’s palms, a piece of parchment was thrust into his hands.

“I just need confirmation of your purchase, is all.” He nodded, scanning the page and watching the dealer counting the money over the edge. Once he was satisfied, he grinned to himself, pocketed the coins and produced a key that was hanging from his belt. He unlocked the chains that bound the slave, who whimpered as he came near. The other slaves nearby jostled around as the chains were unlocked, sensing a moment of freedom, but the  _quaestors_  behind who were overseeing the ordeal barked orders at them and they remained silent. The young blonde watched this with fascination, his eyes roving over every single person involved.  
The young boy he had just bought was handed a tunic which he quickly threw over his head, thankful for the cover. The November morning was quite cool, after all, and it couldn’t have been pleasant standing around for only the gods knew how long. For a moment, the young man felt a pang of sympathy for the other slaves, but he ignored it and instead lifted the stylus to the parchment.

“Does he have a name?” he asked the dealer once he was done replacing the shackles on the rest of the slaves.

“He does, although he is now your property, so you can choose whether or not you adhere to that. He is yours for as long as you want him for, and he is yours to do with what you will. A slave is, in my eyes, the most valuable possession a man can have, although I’m sure you were told otherwise when you were growing up, hm?”  
The young man gave his new slave one last look before he nodded to himself and wrote his name on the parchment, signing it with a flourish. He handed it back to the man who grinned once more, the greed manifesting as a glint in his eyes. He turned to look over the young man’s shoulders at more potential customers heading towards him and his grin grew even wider.

“Thank you ever so much for your purchase, citizen. I’m sure you’ll find him to be of much use to you.” The blonde nodded but said no more, instead wrapping his hand around the slave’s wrist again and tugging him away with him. “ _Vale_!”

With that, B D Dominicus left the slave market, his latest purchase in tow.

In the time it had taken for the purchase, the fog had almost completely lifted, and Rome was entirely visible from the field. The young slave hurried to keep up with Dominicus’ long strides, his eyes wide and jaw dropped as he took in the city in front of him. He had been brought to Italy over the course of a few weeks after the Romans had invaded his town back in Britannia, and, since then, everything had happened too quickly for him to realise it. He’d been content enough being brought here, the journey across Europe fascinating enough to distract him from his loss. It was strange to see landscapes other than his own marshy Britannia, and the warmer climate of Italy was much appreciated by his slender form.

As he stared up at the city, he knew he had never been anywhere quite like this before and, if he was to remain a slave his whole life, he would never see anything else. He followed Dominicus through the streets, occasionally stumbling over his feet as he was so busy taking in the sights around him. The city had come alive while they’d been in the field, and the shops were opening for the day. He could hear voices hollering from within the  _tabernae_ , see the men and women setting up little market stalls in the middle of the street. Women were fetching water from the fountain in the centre of the square, pouring it into the buckets and carrying it back to their houses. Children played in the splashes left over on the street, giggling to themselves as the cool water sprayed up the backs of their calves.

“Come on,” Dominicus urged, pulling on the slave’s wrist. He had expected to buy somebody a bit stronger so that he would be protected, but the young man barely looked to be stronger than himself, and he’d grown up in a country villa with slaves to do his every duty.

When they reached a quiet part of the city, closer to home, Dominicus released the slave’s wrist. The young man rubbed the red skin and fell behind his new Master, thankful for the slower pace. Here, he was able to take in his Master’s features, noticing his large, Roman nose and his defined jaw. His blonde hair trailed past his ears, curling against the planes of his face and at the nape of his neck. When he turned to him, he saw clear, silvery eyes that looked much older than just twenty-two years.

“What’s your name, slave?” he was asked suddenly, and he gasped, looking away and hoping he hadn’t been caught staring.

“Uh, M-matteus. Bellamus Matteus,” he stammered out.

“Not a Roman name.”

“N-no. I’m from Britannia, Master.”

“So I’ve been told.”

They lapsed into silence again, passing the houses as they neared the Caelian Hill. The path eased into a steeper incline, and the two men soon found their legs straining against the angle, their breaths coming harder and their hearts beating faster. About halfway up the hill, Dominicus turned a sharp left and Matteus nearly missed the turning, so amazed was he at the spectacular view from the hill. It wasn’t particularly high up, but he could see the city sprawled out below, people rushing through the streets and going about their business. It was by now almost the fourth hour of the day and the citizens were needed at work.

“Here,” Dominicus announced as they approached one of the smaller houses, yet still grand, on this particular road. “This is where you work, now.” Matteus nodded, taking in the pale stone walls and terracotta roof tiles before he was led into the  _vestibulum_.

He found himself in a fairly large atrium, the walls falling away to reveal the open space. Thick curtains lined the edges of the atrium, presumably covering the entrances to other rooms in the house. Through one archway he could see the  _peristyle_ , a few plants crawling up the walls and around the furniture out there. He stepped around the trough in the middle, noting that it was bone dry despite the open roof.

“Postumus!” Dominicus cried. “Vatia!” He paused, waiting to hear the sound of shoes hurrying through the house, but was only met with silence. Matteus bit his lip, rubbing again at his sore wrist. Every time he looked down he was surprised to find them bare and without shackles. “What in Hades are those pesky slaves up to?” He left Matteus in the atrium as he went to search the house, disappearing behind one of the curtains.

Matteus turned in a full circle, taking in the sculptures and ornaments that the room was decorated with. On a ledge in the corner stood a large, marble bust of a portly old man, cast forever in stone, his eyes looking straight ahead and right into Matteus’ own. He swallowed nervously and turned away from it, feeling as though it was judging him for his lower status, and took in the small shrine to the household gods, an empty wine cup resting in front of the painted figurines.  
There was a small bench in the corner of the room and he perched on it, fidgeting in his tunic as he waited for Dominicus to return. He heard his voice shouting through the house and shivered. He had seemed pleasant at first glance, serious but not stern, well dressed but not pompous. Perhaps he had been too fast in judging his new Master.

At the sound of several sets of footsteps nearby, he stood up and moved away from the bench, hoping he didn’t look too guilty. He wasn’t too sure how pleased Dominicus would be at the sight of his slave lounging on his furniture. The curtain was brushed aside to reveal Dominicus and two other slaves, who walked behind their Master with their heads bowed. The young girl’s face was flushed, her long hair in disarray, but the man appeared stoic and impassive.

“I’m sure I told you to be working in the kitchen, slave! It will be the sixth hour soon and nothing is prepared at all! What in the heavens have you been up to?”

“I’m sorry, Master,” Vatia replied blandly.

“That does not answer my question, does it?” Matteus noticed she shifted from one foot to the other, and the big slave, presumably Postumus, smirked to himself.

“I was tired, Master,” she whispered, her shoulders hunched over as she stared at her feet. Her tunic barely came down to her knees, and Matteus could see her legs trembling. Dominicus’ gaze was stern and he clasped his hands together, holding them up to his lips.

“And so you didn’t do what I asked you to do.”

“Please, Master, forgive me. I’ll get to it right away. I’ll make you the best lunch you’ve ever tasted.” He rolled his eyes.

“I don’t think a little girl like you is capable of that.” Her cheeks flushed crimson and his lips twitched, satisfied she had been punished enough. He clapped his hands together. “Go on! Get to it!” She nodded and disappeared behind a different curtain, Matteus able to hear the clanging of materials in the kitchen as she began to prepare a meal.

Dominicus paced around the room for a few moments, thinking to himself, and then he suddenly seemed to remember that the two slaves were in the room.

“Ah! Yes, Postumus, this is Matteus. He’ll be helping around the house, doing more jobs, so you’ll get a bit of a break now. Not enough to slack, now, though.”

Postumus smiled silently, his deep brown eyes scanning Matteus. His expression remained impenetrable and Matteus scratched the back of his neck. “If you could show him the house and explain the way things work around here, that would be very helpful, thank you. I have some work to be doing.”

With that, he strode across the atrium and left.

As soon as he was out of sight, Postumus took another step towards Matteus. His height and large muscles gave him an imposing aura, and Matteus felt quite insignificant standing next to such a giant.

“He does that, sometimes,” he told him, his voice deep and gruff.

“D-does what?”

“Suggests a duty for you to do. Of course, it must be done. None of what he tells you to do is voluntary, but he likes to make it seem so.” Matteus nodded, but in truth he didn’t understand at all. “That room he’s just gone into is the library, and the one next to it is his bedroom. You’re not allowed in there unless he specifically requires you to be there, but everywhere else in the house is open to us as long as we have good reason to be there.”

Postumus took him around the house, showing him the room that the three of them shared, the floor covered with a thick layer of straw and supplied with a few blankets. Once he was done, he deposited Matteus in the kitchen, suggesting he might be of some use to Vatia, and left.

There was a small stool resting in the corner of the room and the slave sat on it, watching the woman as she sliced the bread and muttered to herself.

“Is e-everything alright?” he asked her and she scowled.

“Lunch is not for another hour at least. The Master gives me jobs just for the sake of keeping me busy and I don’t understand it. He won’t eat this until the seventh hour, probably, by which point it will taste horrible and he’ll blame me!” She spat on the floor and Matteus flinched at the bitterness in her voice.

“You do not like our Master.” She laughed lightly.

“I am just a slave. I am not allowed an opinion.”

“And yet it seems you still have one. You’re br-reaking the rules, Vatia.”

She turned towards him, leaving the cooking utensils on the counter. She narrowed her eyes as she took in his slim features, his thin nose and pale skin the furthest from Roman that she had seen in many years.

“You’re new to this, aren’t you?” He nodded. “You’ve been brought over from somewhere else-you have a strange accent. A foreigner. A young man brought into slavery who thinks it’ll be a chance to see a new culture.” He did not dare protest, although he knew that wasn’t the case. “But it’s not like that. The Master will work you until you die, and then he will buy somebody else to serve him. We are just possessions, now, just things which do the duties of the Master.”

“But he seems to be qu-quite a nice Master, to me at least. Is he n-not?”

“He’s courteous enough. He won’t hurt you, that’s for sure, so I suppose he’s better than some of the beasts who dwell in this city.”

“Then why do you dislike him so much?” he inquired quietly. She shook her head and turned away, clearly bored of the conversation already.

“Oh! You have so much to learn. Give it a week or two, Blaesus, and you’ll know what I mean soon enough. Now scram. I need to get this cooking done.”

He left the kitchen burdened with even more confusion than he had entered with, the new nickname creasing his forehead. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds of the house, and wiped his brow. Hopefully Dominicus would be kind to him.


	2. II (Discens)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revision is still quite slow, what with the Christmas rush at school and loads of work to be doing, but I'm getting stuck into some more research and trying to build it up a bit more :)

Dominicus didn’t come out of the library until it was time for lunch which, as Vatia had predicted, wasn’t until around the seventh hour. Matteus had spent the morning wandering idly around the house and had then curled up to rest in the slaves’ room. By this point his stomach was growling, as he hadn’t been given any breakfast before the market, and he rubbed his belly, hoping he could somehow smother its cries with his hand.  
  
When he was called to lunch, he found Dominicus and the two other slaves in the kitchen. Dominicus was handing them each two thin slices of crusty bread and a cup of wine, which they accepted gratefully before taking them back to the room to eat. He handed Matteus his before dismissing them, once more retreating into the library. Matteus stared after him, too scared to ask the other slaves what he was up to but curious all the same.  
  
“He works down at the Forum,” Vatia said as she walked past. “He’s taken the day off because nothing important is happening today, but he likes to write up everything he’s done again so that it’s ‘perfect’. I guess if you’re going to be his personal slave he’ll probably make you do a lot of that work. You can read and write, can’t you?”  
  
“Y-yes, but my handwriting isn’t particularly good. If he plans to give these documents to people in the Forum...” She shook her head, beckoning him under the arch into the peristyle and into the slaves’ room. Postumus had already made space for himself in the corner and had wolfed down the first slice of bread, and Matteus wondered how such a large man could possibly survive on that little food.  
  
“They don’t mind too much. It’s just the Master, really. Everything has to be in its right place, otherwise he’ll freak out. That’s probably why he doesn’t like us much. Postumus and I are too lazy to bother with being organised.” She grinned mischievously, taking a bite of her bread.  
  
“Or perhaps he doesn’t like you because you’re resentful towards him,” Matteus mumbled, tentatively taking a bite of the bread. It was quite dry, and he sipped at the wine to wash it down, frowning when it didn’t taste as strong as he was used to. “Is there water in this?”  
  
“Of course! You don’t expect to drink wine on its own, do you?”  
  
“W-well, I...”  
  
“You know nothing of Roman custom! What was the Master thinking, purchasing a slave from overseas? We’ll have to teach you everything! He’s so stupid sometimes; it’s a wonder that he made it through that many years of schooling. All that money spent by his family to send him to a special tutor yet he still makes the mistakes of a peasant.”  
  
By chance Matteus lifted his head and caught Postumus’ eyes from across the room. There was a teasing glint in them, and he fought to keep the smile off his face. For a slave, Vatia was certainly full of dangerous, self-assuming opinions.  
  
They kept quiet whilst they ate. Matteus polished off the bread within no time, but his stomach still felt quite empty afterwards. He imagined he’d have to get used to a life of being famished all the time and hoped that there would be a larger meal in the evening.  
Leaning against the wall, Vatia closed her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, her legs outstretched but crossed at the ankles.  
“Has the Master given you a job for the afternoon, yet?”  
  
“N-no. Do you think I should go and ask him what he would like me to do?”  
  
“No!” both slaves shouted at once, Vatia’s eyes flying wide and Postumus scrambling up from his relaxed position. “You must never enter the room unless he asks. He says he’s doing ‘important business’ and he ‘must not be disturbed’ or else ‘the failure of the Roman government lies in your hands’. As if he’s even that important,” Vatia scoffed, scorn lacing her every word as she settled back into her position. “Whatever. Don’t go in there. I’m going to have a nap.”  
  
“No, you’re not,” Postumus whispered. “You know the Master requires you to clean up in the kitchen after meals.”  
  
“Well, I’m sick of it.” She got up suddenly, standing in the doorway and facing the men. “It’s bad enough that I have to do his dirty work for him in the first place, but the fact that he gives me the same job to do every single day is grating on my nerves. I can’t stand it anymore, I can’t!” She threw her hands up in frustration and stormed out of the room, and Matteus could hear the sounds of her sandals slapping against the floor quietening as they moved further away. He watched after her with a bemused expression on his face.  
  
“She’s always like that,” Postumus told him, his voice quiet and gentle. “The old Master was very good to us, and she misses him terribly. You know how they are, those women. I’d ignore her moaning, if I were you.  It would be best to get on Master’s good side, and he’s really not that bad, even if he is young and inexperienced.”  
  
“How old is he?”  
  
“Not much older than you, I’d say. He’s younger than me, though, and Vatia. Fresh from down south, where they have it easy, living in a country villa with slaves working on all their farms.”  
  
“Do you n-not like him either?” Matteus kept his voice just as soft, afraid to ruin the quiet.  
  
“I think that...things could be better. But only because I have experience. I’m sure to you he will be the perfect Master.” He smiled and scrambled up from the floor. “What do I know, though? I’m just a slave, and certainly not one as quick-witted as Vatia. I’d suggest you find something useful to do and keep yourself busy until the Master requires you.”  
  
He left Matteus alone in the room. Frowning, he grabbed a handful of the straw, crushing it in his hand and tossing it away from him. This was what he got. He’d been dragged away from his home, brought to a foreign country and to a master who was so weak that the slaves talked about him behind his back, and for what? He looked at the room around him and the pale walls that confined him but couldn’t find any hint of an answer.  
  
No need to let the misery sink into his bones, though. He knew that, if he occupied himself with work and forced a smile on his face, he could forget about his unfortunate circumstance and get used to life in Rome. After all, it did seem as though it would be too difficult here. Dominicus certainly treated him better than he’d been treated by the slave-dealer, and making him work was part of being a Master, surely?  
  
Matteus sighed, scratching at his arm before getting up off the floor. Maybe he could help Vatia with the cleaning and brighten her mood a bit. He made for the kitchen. On the way, however, he saw Dominicus in the atrium poring over a scroll and running a hand through his hair. Upon hearing footfalls, he looked up and smiled slightly at the sight of Matteus tentatively lingering in the corner of the room.  
  
“I was wondering where you were. I have a job for you to do.”  
  
He rolled the scroll back up, hands sliding over the edge of the parchment. One hand beckoned Matteus towards him and the shaking slave was led into the library. As soon as he set foot over the threshold-with his left foot, just in case Dominicus thought him base-his jaw dropped as he took in the room. Natural light filtered in from one of the only windows in the house, a small bronze statue of Minerva resting on the windowsill, an owl resting on her shoulder. The walls were lined with shelves that were neatly stocked full of scrolls, tablets and sheets of hieratic paper, many covered with beautiful cursive writing. His eyes took in the titles, but many of them were in Greek and therefore unintelligible to him, just a sequence of symbols that held the key to the delights of the world.  
  
A large desk was in the middle of the room, a wax tablet and stylus resting on the top. Dominicus paced around the room as Matteus took in the beauty of the room, wondering how many years it would take him to read all of the books in here. One of the bookshelves was entirely dedicated to the works of Cicero, another full of plays and poems from the past century or so.  _Perhaps if I am good, Dominicus will allow me to read in my free time..._ Matteus dismissed the thought as soon as it entered his mind, knowing that, as a slave, it wasn’t his place to touch his Master’s belongings, and sighed. From what Vatia had said, he was lucky to be allowed in here in the first place. He took in a deep breath, wishing he could absorb all the information stored in there through his lungs, imagining the possibilities once he had gained that knowledge. They seemed infinite, a vast expanse of opportunities and adventures he would never get to have.  
  
Dominicus noticed his fascination and a smug smile flickered across his face. He was most proud of this room, having collected the scrolls from various friends and markets through what had been a short life so far. There was still a shelf at the end of the wall that hadn’t been filled, but he was sure that in a few years time he would have it filled with more delights.  
  
“I need you to pass a message along for me,” he stated, leaning against the wall so that his elbow rested on the windowsill, dangerously close to knocking the statue outside. Matteus bit his lip, worried that the exquisite statue would smash if it fell off and his Master would be displeased. “I have a letter here that must be given to a friend of mine. Luckily for you, he only lives down the street here, even on the same side of the road. I would deliver it myself but I have much work to do, so I’m passing the duty along to you.”  
  
Matteus nodded and watched as Dominicus rolled up the scroll tightly and produced a stick of  _asphalton_  from the side of the desk.  
“Get the candle, will you?” Matteus looked down at the desk to see the candle he’d overlooked in his awe and picked it up, holding it towards Dominicus. He watched the flame flicker and dance as Dominicus guided his hands so that the candle was just above the scroll. Dominicus held the stick of asphalt to the flame and watched as it began to melt, dripping onto the paper. He then removed the iron signet ring from his finger, tugging it over his knuckle and wincing slightly, before firmly pressing it into the soft asphalt. When he removed it, a small symbol was impressed into the material, and Matteus replaced the candle. Matteus sensed a flicker of jealousy within him as Dominicus slid the ring back on his finger. That ring gave him status to a certain extent, gave him a way of being recognised as a person, not somebody owned by another who could do whatever they liked to him. Matteus was not allowed to protest.  
  
Dominicus passed the scroll to the slave who took it with a shaking hand. “The house is right at the end of this street here. There might be a slave on the door, but just tell him that I send my greetings.”  
  
“O-of course, Master. I’ll get to it r-right away.”  
  
Dominicus dismissed him with a wave of his hand and settled back behind the desk, beginning  his work from where he had left off. Matteus allowed himself one last glance at the exquisite room, noticing that there was still a slice of bread beside Dominicus that was untouched, before leaving the room. As he made to leave the house, he passed Vatia, who had just finished cleaning up the kitchen.  
  
“Has he got you running errands already?” she asked him. “What have you got to do? Visit one of his friends because he can’t be bothered?”  
  
“Master has told me to deliver a letter.”  
  
“Delivering! And you’ve only been here for a few hours. How does he expect you to find your way to the house?” Matteus shrugged.  
  
“He told me where the house is. I’m sure I’ll be f-fine.” She sniffed.  
  
“If you’re not back within the hour, I’m going after you.” He tilted his head by way of saying thank you and left the house, wondering how it could possibly take him over an hour to deliver a letter to the end of the road.  
  
When he stepped onto the street outside, however, he understood what she meant. He peered down the road and couldn’t see the way he’d originally come up the hill, the street disappearing around the side.  _Is it a full circle_ , he wondered?  _Surely Dominicus wouldn’t tell me to go to the house at the end if there isn’t an end?_  
  
He set off in what he hoped was the opposite direction to his original entrance, making sure to keep a firm hold of the scroll without crumpling the parchment. Despite it being November, the weather was still quite warm, and only a few clouds crossed the sky. Matteus’ skin soaked up the Mediterranean weather gratefully, and he had to resist the urge to whistle a little tune, unsure of what the wealthy citizens of Rome would think of such a cheerful slave.  
  
Many of the houses he passed had slaves standing outside the doors, big and burly slaves like Postumus, and they narrowed their eyes at Matteus as he passed. He sped up a little, their gazes unnerving him, and looked straight ahead. It was hard enough trying to avoid tripping on the uneven stones, the angle at which he was walking making just the simple action of picking up his foot very difficult indeed. He was used to soft undergrowth and muddy paths beneath his bare feet, not sandals and heated stone. Rome was an entirely different world.  
  
Finally, however, he seemed to find the end of the street. The house was fairly large, bigger than those which he had passed and almost twice the size of Dominicus’. In fact, it was almost the size of a typical country villa, presumably with a similar sized peristyle out back. Feeling a bit intimidated, Matteus turned off the road towards the house, noting the huge slave standing outside. He had a scabbard tucked into his belt, the hilt of a sword poking out and glinting under the sunlight. Matteus shivered and looked down, holding out the letter. His hand was trembling again, the cocktail of fear and nerves wobbling his limbs and choking up his throat.  
  
“M-my Master sends his greetings and,” Matteus began, suddenly realising he had no idea what to say. What was the protocol for this sort of thing? Was he supposed to look at the other slave? Send his own greetings? Pretend he didn’t exist? Would he be asked to go inside and stand in the lavishly furnished atrium and feel humble and small? “And he wishes to pass this letter on to your Master.”  
  
The door-slave said nothing, instead disappearing into the  _vestibulum_  for a moment, leaving the quaking slave standing outside in the sun. His skin prickled with the heat on his arm, sure that the temperature had suddenly risen, and he waited anxiously for the slave to return. After a few minutes, he was told to proceed and was allowed through the door, finding himself in a surprisingly bare atrium. He had expected statues and paintings and wall murals, but found only a small hearth with a meagre offering placed before it. The room was even more naked than Dominicus’ atrium, yet it was twice the size. A square of light was cast across the stone floor, rather like a spotlight waiting for the Master to enter.  
  
Matteus never saw him, however, as another house slave arrived to take the letter from him. This slave’s tunic was considerably nicer than Matteus’ own, made with thicker, softer material. She wore fine bracelets around her wrists, with what Matteus assumed was her Master’s name inscribed in the metal. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, instead handing over the letter silently. She thanked him and told him he could see himself out. Feeling quite empty without something to keep his hands busy, he trudged out of the house and set off back to Dominicus’ house, waving to the door-slave as he left. He didn’t wave back.  
  
Matteus fiddled with the tassels of his belt as he walked, twirling them between his fingers. He wondered whether he would be expected to wear this same tunic for his whole life or whether he’d be treated to some fine material like the girl had been wearing. It looked far more comfortable than his own, and cleaner, too. For a second, he found himself envious of her luxurious surroundings, but then he remembered that the Master had been so consumed with his own self-loving that he couldn’t even come to the door to receive a letter from his friend. How pompous he must be! Then he was thankful that his own Master was young and kind, and a flush of appreciation for Dominicus rose within him.  
  
 _He’s quite good-looking, too,_  he thought as he walked, keeping his mind occupied. He had blonde hair that looked golden in some lights, like a gift from the Elysian Fields. His skin was blessed by the sun, darkened by exposure to the warmth but not worn and rough like the slaves’.  _And he must be intelligent as well, or else he wouldn’t surround himself with books and important work._  
Matteus wore a small, self-satisfied smile as he ambled home, proud of his Master already when he’d barely spoken ten words to him. If he wasn’t a slave, he might consider making friends with him, but as it was, he would have to settle for impressing him as much as he possibly could. Anything to the please the man.  
  
When he got to the end of the road, however, he realised something had gone wrong and he’d walked further than he was supposed to. He must’ve passed the house along the way and not noticed it, but he had no idea which one belonged to Dominicus. Most of them looked the same, the stone walls and tiled roofs of each house identical to the one next to it. How did anybody ever know who lived where? Dominicus didn’t have a door-slave to make his house stand out, but neither did many of the houses at this end of the street.  
He clasped his fingers together nervously, twiddling his thumbs as he slowed his walk and scanned the street for something that looked familiar. Perhaps he would hear Vatia grumbling through a window and find his way home that way.  
  
From his place in the library, Dominicus rested his head on the windowsill and looked out at the road. He was tired of his work and wanted to give his hand a rest, deciding to occupy himself with looking out for the little slave. It was quite a risk sending him out alone on the first day, when he had not yet been marked in any way and loyalty hadn’t been established, but he was hoping the young man wouldn’t fail the test. As he watched, he saw Matteus walk straight past the window and sat up, eyebrows drawn together with confusion. The slave paused at the end of the road and then looked back at the endless row of houses, and Dominicus felt a smile flickering at his lips, deciding would wait for a little while and see whether the slave could use his initiative and find him without help. He leant back from the window and sat in the shadows.  
  
As he watched, Matteus caught his foot on a cobblestone and went flying to the floor, arms flying out to brace himself against the ground. He nearly avoided having his face slammed into the road, instead merely banging up his knees a little bit. He cursed and pulled himself back up from the floor before anybody saw him, rubbing his hands on his tunic to clear them. The skin was abraded slightly, a light sting working its way through his arms, and he winced. The belt around his waist had also come undone, the tunic now loose and airy. He scowled, trying to tie it back up again, but the rough fabric only hurt his hands more. He yelped and kept it loosely tied, looking around him and running a hand through his hair to rearrange the fallen strands. They’d grown longer in the few weeks it had been since he was taken from home, the already quite scruffy and straggly mop now covering his ears. Something would have to be done about that.  
  
Suddenly he heard quiet laughter from nearby and his ears pricked up. He spun around on the spot, staring straight through a window at a figure hidden in the darkness of a room. Smiling to himself proudly, he stalked right up to the window and poked his head through it, face to face with his chuckling Master. At the sight of the slave’s face so close, however, the laughing stopped abruptly and Dominicus rushed up from his seat to the window.  
  
“What are you doing?” he barked, shooing Matteus away. “Get out of here!” The smile slid from the young slave’s face and he stepped back from the window, holding his hands up apologetically as he scurried to the vestibulum.  
  
“Not that way!” he heard Dominicus shout, “In the  _slaves_ ’ entrance. Honestly!”  
  
Head ducked to hide his flushed cheeks, he made for the other entrance, having to pass before the window again before he could get there. Dominicus was shaking his head in despair and Matteus’ chagrin grew at the thought of disappointing his Master. He bit his lip and pushed open the door, putting the bolt in place beside him and leaning against the wall. He was only allowed a moment’s peace, however, as he soon heard a voice beside him hissing,  
“What in Hades were you playing at?” He opened his weary eyes to see an angry Vatia standing in front of him with her hands on her narrow hips.  
  
“I was just doing my d-duty,” Matteus mumbled, turning his head away so he didn’t have to look into her eyes. He was afraid of what he’d find there, her eyes the most shallow and reflective he’d ever seen. He’d been fascinated by depths before, the same way that Dominicus’ silvery eyes had captivated him with that first glance, but he could sense nothing more behind Vatia’s gaze.  
  
“Playing games with the Master? Did you forget everything I told you about not going into the library?”  
  
“He was laughing at me!” He turned to face her, filled with righteous conviction. How could he be expected not to react if he’d been humiliated?  
  
“He can do what he likes! You must always defer to him. You must remain loyal and, above all things, a  _slave._ ”  
  
“Earlier you were saying such horrible things about the Master, though. I thought you despised being a slave and living here, so why are you preaching to me now?” He pushed back from the wall, making his way into the main part of the house, shreds of fear spiking in his blood at the thought that Dominicus would be there to punish him.  
  
“Blaesus, Blaesus, Blaesus, I despair, I really do,” Vatia sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Just because I don’t like the Master doesn’t mean I won’t do my duty. And just because I don’t enjoy doing my duty doesn’t mean that I’m willing to risk punishment or-Jupiter forbid!-death.”  
  
“Death?” Matteus spluttered, turning once more to laugh in her face. “I thought you said he wouldn’t hurt us. Why would he kill you?”  
  
“He wouldn’t do it directly, of course, but he could injure me and throw me out, or sell me to somebody far crueller. It’s just easier for me to stay where I am.” He shook his head.  
  
“I don’t understand you.”  
  
“Give it a few weeks and you will.” He shrugged, walking over to the bust against the wall. He studied the face, noticing that the general shape was similar to Dominicus’, with the same straight nose and full lips. A small inscription below the bust read ‘Voluminius Decimus Dominicus, proud Master of this house.’  
  
“What happened to him?” he asked, wondering if Vatia would shed some light on the matter for him. However, when he received no reply, he turned around and found himself alone in the atrium, again without a job to do and again wondering how he would ever adjust to this new life. 


	3. III (Omina)

To Matteus’ relief, Dominicus seemed to have all but forgotten about the incident, and he wasn’t required to do anything until the later hours of the day when dinner was almost ready. Dominicus had decided he wished to dine in the dining room, despite being alone and without guests, and Vatia explained to Matteus how he was supposed to serve him between preparing the meal. He laid out the plate on the table and stood in the corner of the room, observing as he waited for his Master to appear.  
  
The room was incredibly beautiful, with a large mosaic covering much of the floor like a rug, the tiny coloured squares building up a picture of a cornucopia overflowing with luxurious food. The table stood directly in the middle of the floor, three couches arranged around it for diners to sit. The  _lectus medius,_ which faced the entrance to the room, was the only one prepared, with two cushions and a blanket, made of much softer material than those in the slaves’ room, draped over it. A handful of small statues were standing in niches in the wall, and Matteus recognised that they were the same bronze as the statue of Minerva in his Master’s library. Perhaps they were from the same collection.  
  
Dominicus emerged from the library looking stressed, his face pinched and creased with worry. Matteus had half a mind to ask what was bothering him but wanted to keep a low profile just in case he was called out on his earlier antics. Therefore, he stayed against the wall as Dominicus sat down on the couch and lay back, reclining so that his head rested on the seat. Matteus watched him curiously, unsure how he was supposed to eat in such a position. If he had too much wine, would he just fall asleep there? And then would the slaves be required to carry the Master to his room? Dominicus wasn’t a big man in either height or girth, but Matteus wasn’t sure he would be able to hold him up. Nor did he think he’d be allowed to.  
  
Vatia called him back from the kitchen and he rushed towards her, taking a plate of vegetables into the dining room and placing it on the table in front of his Master, whose eyes were now closed, his fingers smoothing out his skin and massaging his temple. The slave was summoned again to bring in a plate of cooked meat and a few slices of cheese, which he rested next to the still untouched vegetables. At the sound of the plate hitting the stone table Dominicus opened his eyes and sat up slightly, resting on his elbow and reaching for the plate. He plucked one of the cheese slices from the plate and bit into it, smiling to himself at the milky taste. It had been a long day and his stomach was begging him for some form of relief. As soon as he’d sent Matteus off with the letter, his most urgent duty of the day safely done, he had polished off the other slice of bread, and several hours had passed since then.  
  
Matteus appeared through the doorway again. Dominicus watched from his reclining position as the slave carried a jug of wine towards him. As he crossed the threshold between the rooms, his foot caught on the edge of the curtain that had been swept to the side of the entrance. The fabric caught on the strap of his sandals and he shook his foot out of the curtain’s hold, wobbling around one leg. When the fabric refused to pull away, Matteus shook his foot more violently, growing more unsteady by the second. At one final twist of his foot, the slave toppled over and fell to the ground.  
  
Dominicus sat up, mouth still half full with cheese, and bolted up from the seat as both Matteus and the wine jug clattered to the floor. The slave whimpered pathetically as he hit the floor for the second time that day, rubbing his elbows. He was in no hurry to get up, instead curling in on himself as his fingers tested his twisted ankle. From his position on the ground he could see the jug rolling around in a dark puddle of wine, and suddenly a pair of feet appeared in front of him. His heart sank as two things became very clear: Dominicus was furious with him, and he most certainly wouldn’t be getting any dinner tonight.  
  
“ _Caudex!_ ” Dominicus cried, staring down at the disgraced boy with narrowed eyes. “Look at what you’ve done!” Matteus slowly picked up his head and observed the scene, the crimson splatters of wine almost like blood, glinting in the low light of the evening.  
  
“I’m sorry, Master, please forgive me, I did not mean to,” he begged, crawling to his Master’s feet and bowing his head down.  
  
“I should hope you didn’t mean to, otherwise I shall have to do some inquisitions into the nature of your job here! Look at what you have done!  _Mehercule_ , the gods will be so angry. How could you?”  
  
Matteus heard the sound of footsteps running towards him and groaned, knowing that the two other slaves had come to watch. There was a gasp from the doorway and he heard Postumus whisper,  
  
“Oh this is very bad, very bad indeed.”  
  
If he had been in another situation, perhaps just a mere observer on the sidelines, he might have laughed at the way his Master stomped his foot childishly, the spilt wine splashing up his legs and staining his skin a deep pink. As it was, however, he cringed in fear, seeing Dominicus’ hand rise as if moving to slap him around the head. He winced in advance and shrank away, but the hand moved instead to Dominicus’ own head, tugging at his short hair, and he cursed to himself before ordering Matteus to clean up the mess. He then swiftly abandoned the room, leaving the slaves to it, his unfinished dinner remaining on the table.  
  
Vatia glared down at the new slave and picked up the plates of food, before following her Master with her head lowered respectfully so that he wouldn’t waste the meal.  
  
“I don’t understand,” Matteus whispered, scrambling up from the floor to fetch a cloth from the kitchen and bring it back to the dining room. He got onto his hands and knees and soaked up the mess with the fabric.  
  
“Spilling wine is a bad omen, Blaesus!” Postumus exclaimed as he followed him around, adopting Vatia’s nickname for him. “You might have just brought bad fortune upon the whole household-and on your first day, too!”  
  
Matteus frowned, wringing out the cloth and starting again on another puddle, the wine slowly bleeding into the grey fabric as the fibres absorbed the liquid, transferring it to Matteus’ hands. He held them up to the diminishing light filtering in from the atrium and suddenly felt a heavy weight of guilt in the pit of his stomach, looking as though he’d harmed someone, maybe even killed them. He swallowed nervously.  
  
“You don’t actually b-believe in all that, do you?” he scoffed, sceptical of any kind of religion. He’d seen the different waves sweeping through the countries he’d passed and hadn't believed a word of any of them.  
  
“Most people in Rome do. The gods are very powerful, Blaesus, and it would be better for you if you learnt to accept that.”  
He was handed another cloth and grumbled to himself that the other slave could at least help him. Postumus merely rolled his eyes, adding, “Besides, the Master is very superstitious. He's left-handed, so everything he does is tainted. That's why he's always trying to bed good, so that the gods will spare him despite his fault. I’m sure you’ll spot a generous sacrifice tonight.” Matteus’ scrubbing paused as his limbs locked up with fear.  
  
“Sacrifice?” For a brief moment, an image of himself tied up in front of the hearth flashed before his eyes, the wrath of the gods inflicted upon him as lightning struck down through the opening in the ceiling. He shuddered and Postumus chuckled, satisfied that at least he knew how to make the younger slave respect the Master’s beliefs now.  
  
“Not of humans, you fool! But most certainly food and wine, perhaps money. That’s why Vatia’s angry at you; not only did you spill her ‘wonderfully prepared food’ but now she’ll have to make something lavish for the gods before the end of the night. Darkness will fall soon, and the Master likes to head to bed early.”  
  
Matteus shook his head and groaned. “I’m an idiot.”  
  
“Yes, you are.”  
  
The other slave left him alone.  
  
Matteus cleaned the floor until his elbows ached, ugly purple bruises beginning to form on his pale skin from his earlier falls. He cursed his luck several times but never once said a bad word against the Master, instead blaming everything on his own clumsiness and hoping that he would have a better day tomorrow.  
  
Once the daylight had finally forsaken him, he deemed the room clean and free from splatters-although it was difficult to tell without the light-and left for the slaves’ room. As he passed through the atrium, he could hear Vatia working away in the kitchen, muttering to herself under her breath so that he couldn’t make out distinct words. He saw that there was already a cup of wine laid in front of the shrine and he made a special effort to walk around it so that there was no possibility of his foot knocking it over. That would be far too much to deal with in just one day.  
  
As he reached the slaves’ room, however, his feet turned him the other way and he stepped into the peristyle, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. The air was chilly, now, the November evening making him wish he had something more than a tunic to wear. However, it helped to clear his mind and he filled his lungs with as much air as he could, seemingly expelling his worries when he exhaled.  
  
Upon opening his eyes, he realised there was still enough natural light to take in the garden properly. He noticed a wooden chair set in the corner and several statuettes dotted among the plants that sprouted around the edges. Somebody obviously tended to the area every day to keep it neat and tidy, and he was sure that it flourished with beautiful flowers come the spring. As it was growing close to winter, however, the garden was comprised of dying plants and a just few dark green leaves, wilting stems twigs sticking out from some of the beds. Death permeated the air, and Matteus rubbed his arms as goosebumps rose on his skin. He moved towards the bed, making to clear away some of the mess so that it appeared as presentable as it perhaps had that morning, and heard somebody clearing their throat behind him.  
  
He whirled around immediately and bowed his head as he came face to face with his Master, his hands shaking with nerves.  
  
“You are a pain, you know that?” Dominicus sighed, walking into the garden taking a seat on the stone ledge and looking out on the road behind. He could see the lights of several houses further up the Caelian Hill, getting larger and larger until they reached the summit. He had walked up there a few times, taking a picnic to reward himself for the strenuous climb, and had sat back to admire the view. From the tops of the seven hills one could see many different views of Rome, but he was sure that this was the most spectacular. From that height he could see all the other hills clearly without having to move, and even the temples on the top of the Capitoline and the Palatine. Rome seemed even more magnificent when all of its glory could be taken in at once, a walk through the street often overwhelming due to the many different sounds and smells that would pervade his senses.  
  
“I’m sorry, Master,” Matteus whispered, his voice carried off on a slight breeze that ruffled their hair. He moved to brush a lock behind his ear, still looking at the floor to avoid the penetrating stare that he knew was waiting for him.  
  
“I know you are. I have made a sacrifice to the gods and hopefully they will forgive you for your mistakes.”  
  
Silence fell between them and Matteus ached to sit down, his legs weary from the work. He had been awake since before the first hour of the day, having been allowed barely any rest for the past few weeks anyway, and all he wanted was to lie down and sleep. His eyes drooped with nothing to catch his attention, the lights in the nearby houses slowly flickering off. The hill was silent, its inhabitants closing down for the night and resting peacefully in their beds.  
  
“Nobody has taught you how to be a slave,” Dominicus observed, noting the way Matteus twitched slightly as though he was personally insulted. “I did ask Postumus to train you.”  
  
“He was very informative, Master. It’s not his fault.”  
  
“Still, he obviously did not tell you much about decorum and acting like a slave. Fair enough, he gave you the details on what work you were supposed to, perhaps on my temperament,” he had indeed done such a thing, Matteus remembered, “but he told you nothing about the life of a slave. I suppose he did not know that he was meant to. Ah, well, what’s done is done. You won’t do it again, will you?”  
  
Matteus shook his head, pressing his lips together to refrain from talking back. Dominicus made him feel like a child being reprimanded by his mother again, not a fully grown man. He might be a slave, but he had  _some_ rights, surely? Or perhaps not.  
  
“That’s what I like to hear. Take note, then, slave,” Dominicus stated, folding his arms and leaning back slightly so that he could see the slave fully in one glance, “I will not be as lenient with you come morning.”  
  
“Yes, Master. I understand.”  
  
He was allowed a brief smile before he was sent into the slaves’ room, Dominicus remaining in the peristyle. He’d visited the villa when he was a young boy, his family making the day long journey up to Rome from the countryside to spend a week or so with this grandfather. He had worried about being a burden on the old man, but his father assured him that he would have plenty of space for them and that the only time the  _alae_  were used was when he had guests over, which was ever more infrequent with his growing age. He then slapped Dominicus forcefully on the shoulder, the young boy nearly falling out of the coach and straight onto the road at the power of it.  
  
Now the villa was his and he was alone, just like his grandfather, his only company two slaves who hated him and another who wasn’t fit to serve Hades. The potential he had seen in the boy in the early morning light seemed to fizzle away in the evening, his features hidden in shadow and his fingers tangling together nervously in front of him. The slaves seemed to think that their Master was oblivious to their actions, foolish like the rest of them and willing to let them get on with things, but he often checked in on their work, and he knew everything. He had heard too many stories of slaves’ antics finally being revealed to a Master, resulting often in the severe punishment of the slave and, perhaps more importantly, the deterioration of the Master’s reputation. He couldn’t afford to lose any credit when he was this close to making his way up the ladder. One day he would be successful, he was sure of it.  
  
After staring up at the sky for several minutes, the view of the stars blocked by incoming clouds and the few lights still on across the Caelian, he headed inside the house, closing the door and bolting it beside him. The front door was already locked, Postumus’ final task before bed to make sure that the house was secure. Dominicus had not yet found the need for a bodyguard as such, nor somebody to stand at the door and guard the house. He was of a kind disposition, and people generally tended to like him. Only senators and the controversial (so still the senators) really required a guardian.  
  
Satisfied that he was protected from the outside, he knelt in front of the small shrine in the atrium, careful not to knock the cup of wine with his knee. He interlocked his fingers and bent his head over them, closing his eyes as he began to whisper a prayer.  
  
“O, Janus, god of the home and new beginnings, bless this house. Bring fortune to those within it and grant that they may prosper. Do not condemn us nor forsake us to a life of deprivation,” he begged, silently adding a request for forgiveness.  
  
He remained in his crouch for a few moments, wobbling on the balls of his feet before stepping up and away, disappearing into his bedroom. The flame on the wick of the oil lamp set in front of the hearth flickered in the breeze and went out.  
  
The following day, Matteus was woken by the sound of somebody grumbling in the corner of the room. He forced his eyes open, blinking rapidly to clear them and squinted out at the room. Vatia was standing in the corner, straw sticking to her legs and poking out from her hair at random angles. She scratched her arm where the straw had pressed into it, creating strange, angular patterns on the tanned skin.  
  
“You are such a noisy sleeper, it’s unreal,” she groaned, Matteus’ brow crumpling so that his eyes were nearly closed. He rubbed his bleary eyes with the back of his hand. “Crying all night and whimpering. Fuck’s sake.”  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“You should be. Late nights, early rises and now you crying for Mummy. You’d better not do this every night!” She huffed and stormed out of the room, making for the kitchen again. Matteus sighed, wondering what he was dreaming about to have cried out so much, and his cheeks flushed with warmth. Had he really been calling for his mother?  
  
“I bet she doesn’t even speak Celtic,” Matteus mumbled to himself as he tried to reassure himself that she was just teasing, but there was not much conviction in his voice. He ran a hand through his hair, retied the belt around his tunic and stepped out of the room, nearly walking into Postumus as he went. The larger slave laughed at his wide eyes, pushing him out of the way as he stepped into the room.  
  
“You’d better watch it, little Blaesus! The easiest way to get in trouble in Rome is to aggravate the big people. And I don’t just mean size, too,” he said, sounding for all the world like he had been in trouble far too many a time.  
  
“Is that so?” Matteus replied quietly, slipping out to inspect the dining room floor. The stain was almost invisible, and he rested his hands on his hips, a satisfied little smile spreading itself across his face.  
  
“What are you looking so happy about?” he heard and turned around to find himself face to face with Dominicus, wondering why people kept walking into him and surprising him. He’d barely been awake for ten minutes!  
  
“N-nothing, Master,” he answered meekly, Dominicus frowning as the smile dropped off his face.  
  
“If you say so. I will need your help today, after breakfast.”  
  
“Yes, Master.”  
  
He heard a call from the kitchen and bit his lip, conflicted as to whether he was supposed to stay with his Master or answer the orders.  
  
“Not now!” Dominicus cried, answering for him, “he’s busy with me at the moment. Do it yourself like you used to.” They heard a groan from the kitchen and Matteus couldn’t even imagine all the ways that Vatia was mouthing him off right now. He bit back a grin as Dominicus shook his head. “That girl, honestly. As I was saying, I’ve been in the house for quite a while now and I was hoping to have some guests over to visit. However, the _alae_  are currently full of my grandfather’s property which he left after he died. Most of it was just dumped into the rooms, taking no consideration for its worth or even asking me whether I wanted it-tsch!-so I would like to go through it and pick out anything I might like to keep. The house does look a bit under-furnished, don’t you think?”  
  
“I wouldn’t know, Master,” Matteus replied honestly, thinking back to the home he’d shared with his family in Britannia. It had been simpler than anything, the walls barely holding up in the middle of the winter months. Never had he had the luxury of choosing which furnishings to surround himself with, and he entertained fantasies of finding paintings splashed with vibrant colours and delicate statues of Venus in the rooms.  
  
“No, I suppose you would not. Never mind that, though. We’ll go to breakfast.”  
  
Breakfast was a simple affair, with a few bowls prepared in the kitchen with porridge. Matteus noticed that one of them had a golden streak of honey through it and Dominicus went straight for it, dipping his finger in it and hissing when it was too hot. Vatia sniggered quietly, quickly eating her own bowl of porridge. Matteus was surprised that his Master only ate the same breakfast as his slaves, sure that he would enjoy some fruit or at least a larger portion.  
  
“You’re getting better at this, I’m sure,” Dominicus commented once the porridge had finally cooled down enough for him to attempt eating it. Vatia smiled pleasantly, but her eyes narrowed as Dominicus turned his back on her and left the room.  
  
“Listen to him!” she exclaimed, not caring whether he could still hear her or not. “I’ve been doing this for years and he has the audacity to tell me I’ve  _improved._  His grandfather certainly wouldn’t have spoken to me like that!”  
  
“What are you even talking about? He was giving you a compliment.” Matteus rolled his eyes, a little disbelieving chuckle escaping his lips.  
  
“Are you serious? It’s not about what he says, it’s about how he says it! Mr ‘I’m trained in rhetoric and I always talk in beautiful prose blah, blah, blah’. I’ll have you know that not every word that comes out of his mouth is hewn from gold. In fact, hardly any of them are. He’s just like the rest of us! Just like me and you, even, except his birth right means that he can’t be enslaved. It’s disgraceful, it really is.”  
  
Matteus tuned out, instead focusing on the hot porridge burning his tongue, panting slightly as he reached for the jug of water. He poured some out into a cup and took a swig of it, closing his eyes in relief as the burning subsided.  
  
“He thinks he knows everything but he-Hey! We only get a limited amount of that, you know.”  
  
“You have aqueducts! We can have as much water as we like!”  
  
Vatia scowled at him, her face screwing up. Matteus nearly spat his water out again from laughing, her moderately pretty not nearly half as attractive when her nose was so scrunched up.  
  
“How do you know that? You’re not supposed to know that.”  
  
“Because I saw them! Do you think I’m that stupid?”  
  
“But Rome pretty much invented the aqueduct! Nobody else knows about them.” He snorted and allowed himself a smug smile, folding his arms across his chest, still clutching the cup in one hand.  
  
“Well  _I_  did. You can take your Roman superiority and shove it-“  
  
“Excuse me!” a sharp bark came from the doorway and their heads whipped around to find Dominicus standing there watching them, lit by the light from the atrium so that his face was still partially in shadow. The light filtered through his hair making a golden halo around his face, and his full lips were pressed together sternly. Their jaws dropped open as he glared at them. “What is all this bickering about?”  
  
Matteus bit his lip so that he wouldn’t blurt everything out, the power that Dominicus wielded over him making every cell inside of him shrink in awe and fear. Vatia backed into the corner, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear and looking away. Typical of Blaesus to get her into trouble. Again.  
  
“One of you tell me!” he demanded.  
  
“We were talking about the aqueducts,” Vatia mumbled, the nervous twitching of Matteus’ hands and face grating on her nerves.  
  
“Shouting about them? They are magnificent structures, yes, but do you really feel the need to proclaim it to the whole city?”  
  
“I was telling Matteus how amazing it is that the people have the power to create such a thing, that we humans, not gods, can make something so powerful and useful for all people. I was explaining to him how they work, you see.”  
  
Matteus nearly scoffed in disbelief, sure that Vatia didn’t have the slightest idea as to how the aqueducts worked. However, her ability to spin such a lie on the spot was admirable. Even Dominicus seemed to fall for it. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing more, instead looking Matteus up and down and noting his scruffiness. He barely looked like the same slave he had spoken to before breakfast, and yet a few minutes around Vatia and he appeared to have done a full day’s work already! She was a terrible influence on him, and Dominicus was going to do something about it before his new slave could possibly be manipulated to her ways. The gods knew that the boy was eager to work, full of spirit and excited to do things right, and he wasn’t going to let Vatia pollute him with her anti-slavery protests. If a slave was willing, then all the better for them. But an unwilling slave would only make everyone miserable. They cannot do anything about their situation, nor can they overthrow their Masters. The revolt of Spartacus from the previous century proved what would happen the last time the slaves tried to take the power, and who had won in the end? The Roman citizens, as they always do. Conquerors of land and sea, and even their own people. Always in control.  
  
“Come, slave,” he said finally. “You have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Caudex' literally means tree stump, but could be used as an insult along the lines of 'blockhead'


	4. IV (Somnia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrible at keeping up to date with updates. If it wasn't bad enough that I only update once a month (if that), I always forget to copy across from LJ. My deepest apologies.  
> I felt this bit of Ovid was relevant, and I really recommend the full poem (and collection of) if you're into that sort of stuff: 'dixerat interpres. gelido mihi sanguis ab ore fugit, et ante oculos nox stetit alta meos' -Amores 3.5

Matteus could sense the storm clouds brewing in his Master’s mind as he followed him out of the kitchen towards the  _alae_ , abandoning Vatia and leaving her to clean up the water he had accidentally spilt in his shock. He remained silently at the door while his Master stepped inside the room, patiently waiting to be invited in. These doorways weren’t covered with curtains, with the rooms having no general use and usually being empty, so he could understand why his Master wanted to get rid of the clutter in there. It was a bit of an eyesore to anybody standing in the atrium, taking away from the delights of the furniture. When he peered around the corner into the room itself, however, it was as though his earlier daydreaming had come true.  
  
“You may come in.”  
  
Stepping into the room, Matteus felt like he’d stepped into another part of time, like a Rome from many, many years ago. He’d heard about the fall of the dictators and the Republic, learnt about the civil war and the constant fight to be safe in the city, learnt about the power struggle between the fierce hounds who were never satisfied. Now they were in a safe period, and they were allowed certain luxuries, letting their creativity flow to reach new heights. Everything which surrounded him reflected this; it felt modern and new, clean and fresh, like Dominicus himself.  
  
In this room, however, he could almost smell the battlegrounds of the country, could see himself riding on horseback through the Italian countryside in the search of enemy camps. History seemed to come alive. The story of the city of Rome seemed to live in this room, with statues of Romulus and Remus suckling the she-wolf mixed among painted tableaus of Augustus’ victory over the foreign forces at Actium.  
  
“I-I’ve never...” Matteus’ voice trailed off as he turned around in a circle that Dominicus had cleared out of the items, taking in all the wonders of the room and unable to express the full extent of his wonderment.  
  
“This is the room with the most in it, I think,” Dominic said, oblivious to the slave’s awe, “so this will mostly be made of that which they didn’t consider to be too worthy. My tastes are quite different to those of my late grandfather, though, so I daren’t throw it all out in case I find something of value amongst all of this. There will surely be at least one thing that takes my fancy, and I need you to help me find it.”  
  
Matteus briefly asked himself why he didn’t want Postumus to help him, his big, strong muscles certainly more apt for moving around large statues than his own skinny limbs. A moment later, however, he nodded obediently, and his Master pointed at a place for him to start. The slave picked his way over there, careful not to step on anything and accidentally knock over a precious statue. He reached down for the painting he could see resting against the wall and grabbed the corner, pinching it with his fingertips. He held it up, resting one hand on the side with the other supporting the painting below, his fingertips drained of blood from the strain, and turned towards Dominicus, silently asking for his approval.  
  
“By the gods, no! That’s quite inappropriate!” he exclaimed, so uncharacteristically loud that Matteus nearly jumped out of his sandals. He twisted the painting around, eyes widening and cheeks heating at the scene depicted on it, able to make out what looked like three women pleasuring a man in a dining room, their wrists almost completely covered with bangles. The man in the picture lounged leisurely on a  _lectus_ , his eyes closed and his lips curved into a blissful smile. Matteus’ jaw dropped as he thought about the fact that the old man would have had this on display in his house, perhaps even in his room, where guests could see it. Never would he have found anything like this back in Britannia.  
  
“Give it to me,” Dominicus demanded, looking upon the painting with disdain. “I shall have to get rid of it. How my old grandfather could ever have owned anything so crass confounds me. He was a respectable man, just like the rest of my family. Oh, think! What if he went down to the markets one day to buy it? What if it was even commissioned by him? I despair to think what use he might have had of it.”  
  
He received the painting with strong hands and leant it against the wall so that the picture was facing inwards, turned away from the pair. His lips were pursed in a frown and he indicated with a tilt of his head that Matteus should continue working. The slave reached down and grasped a ceramic jug, his long fingers wrapping around the handle as he pulled it from the pile and held it out towards his Master. The rim of the jug was chipped, a few cracks streaking through the body of the thing like lightning, and Dominicus shook his head.  
  
“I’m afraid that we won’t find anything of use in here. Perhaps I was being too hopeful,” he sighed as Matteus stepped over to the wall and placed the jug down by the painting, his curiosity still piqued by the nature of the scene. Maybe the Master would allow him to have a look at what he didn’t want before he passed it on for sale. “Go on, then, next item.”  
  
Once more, Matteus bent down to scavenge something from the pile. His hands found something sturdy and he tugged on it, moving a collection of faded old tunics out of the way so that he could pull it out without breaking it. When it was finally free from its trap, he held it up for his Master, but his eyes strayed from Dominicus’ face to the item in his hands. The cithara was larger than he had expected but surprisingly light, the russet wood smooth beneath his fingertips. Without thinking, he reached out and plucked one of the seven strings that stretched from the sound box to the tuning bar, listening to the sound of it resonating around the room with a smile. The creator had etched patterns into the wood and Matteus traced the swirling pictures of the sea and majestic boats gliding across the surface with his fingertip, bringing the cithara closer to him. He accidentally brushed against the strings again, a muted chord pealing throughout the room, the most beautiful sound he had ever heard caressing his ears and soothing his soul.  
  
“Put that with the rest of it,” Dominicus said, breaking him from his reverie, and Matteus started, biting his lip and clutching the cithara to his chest tightly. “I don’t have time for romantic music. The poets claim it to be the deepest expression of the heart and yet I only find that it pierces my ears to the point of pain. I always get a headache after listening to music.”  
  
Still, Matteus refused to hand over the cithara, one hand stroking it protectively while the other held it in a sturdy grip.  
  
“Come on, slave, put it over here. No dilly-dallying!”  
  
“M-master, no!” Matteus cried, “You can’t get rid of it!”  
  
There was a moment of silence where all that could be heard were the final vibrations of the cithara strings. Dominicus raised his eyebrows.  
  
“Did you just say ‘no’ to me?” Matteus trembled as his Master took one step closer to him. Dominicus was not much taller than the slave, but in that instance his authority swelled him to twice his size.  
  
“I-i-“  
  
“You know that you are a slave, do you not? And you know that I am your Master, do you not? Did I not tell you that I would not be lenient with you any longer?”  
  
“M-master, forgive me, please.” If he had any sense, he would have stopped there, taking the beating he was sure was coming for him and being content; but he had to continue speaking. Something about the weight of the cithara still held in his hands compelled him to continue. “But you h-have to save this, p-please!”  
  
“I don’t  _have_ to do anything.” Despite the anger that flushed his cheeks and raised his voice, Dominicus’ words were still steady and carefully measured.  
  
“W-well, no, of course not, b-but-“  
  
“Stop stammering, slave!” he yelled, punctuating his words with a forceful slap around Matteus’ face. The slave gasped, the hand holding the cithara almost dropping it as the other reached to touch his stinging cheek. He turned to meet his Master’s eyes and found them cold. He shivered under his gaze, feeling even smaller than before. Under the power of his Master’s eyes, the pain in Matteus’ cheek almost seemed to fade away, and nothing compared to the guilt he felt at having betrayed his Master. Yet as his gaze drifted back to the cithara and he asked himself if it was worth the trouble, he realised there was still a fire within him, still something about the instrument that begged him to save it. He couldn’t let Dominicus abandon it to a painful loneliness on the markets where it would not be loved the way it deserved to be.  
  
“Master, please!” he cried with more conviction, his stammer disappearing under the force of his words. He felt a surge of courage rush through him, the adrenaline coursing through his veins and making his head spin.  
  
"How dare you? Do you know how insolent you sound?” The slave swallowed but refused to back down. Dominicus ground his teeth, shook his head slowly and stepped back.  
  
“Get out of my sight," he seethed, and, satisfied that he had scared the slave into submission, stormed out of the room and leaving Matteus staring after him. Without thinking, he made his way to the front door, pushing Postumus out of the way in his race to get out of the house. Suddenly the walls seemed suffocating, the lack of light overwhelming, and all he longed for was the countryside of his home and the birds in the air, the smell of the sea drifting in from the bay and the sight of the ships sailing in from conquered lands, the victory of the Romans painted before his very eyes. He wanted childhood fantasies and wanted success and wanted so many things that he had thought he'd find in Rome, yet all he'd ended up with was a clumsy slave and a severe deficit to his purse.  
  
By this point he was already halfway down the Caelian hill, so angry that he had hardly noticed the trip down, the burn in his legs from the decline forgotten. His foot caught on a loose paving stone and he cried out loud, his frustration boiling over and escaping him. He suddenly regretted the decision to buy open-toed sandals, and cursed the powers which had broken his former pair. Surely there should be some way of protecting his feet, right?  
  
As he stormed down the hill he became aware of his surroundings, other inhabitants staring and giggling at him from behind their hands. He scowled at them and sped up to get away. Was everybody incompetent in this magnificent city? With so many inhabitants, there had to be somebody with a shred of sense, somebody he could talk to who would not just accept him but understand him. He’d never had somebody he could turn to unconditionally; his parents had pushed him away for being too inquisitive, too proud, too taken in by literature and the country air to be of any use to his tough, Roman _paterfamilias_.  
  
He reached the bottom of the Caelian and looked around him, roads sprawling out before his eyes to take him in any direction he chose. He ran a hand through his hair, cringing when he found it greasy, and was tempted by the thought of the baths that were just around the corner, his favourite place in the entire city. However, it was still early in the morning; perhaps he should save it for later in the day when he was in a better mood. Otherwise he wouldn't enjoy the experience, all because of that wretched slave.  
  
Instead, he found himself weaving through the narrowest of roads down to the centre of Rome, drawn to the noise of the people. Usually he wanted to get away from everyone when he was mad, as being around people who were too close and too dirty and too loud was always overwhelming and only aggravated him further.  However, the appeal of getting lost among all the faces today was hard to resist, and he soon found himself in the marketplace, which had just opened up for business.  
  
Rome awakes early, and the city is always full of life. People are seen at all hours of the day, from the crack of dawn right until the stars begin to set, watching as the sun rises again before they sleep. There is always somebody around, always somebody who would be willing to have your company-but of course, there is always somebody who is equally willing to remove you from sight. The city’s crime levels had fallen since Augustus’ rule, the general benevolence of the making everyday life easier for the citizens to handle with violence, and there weren’t as many mobs and gangs anymore. Still, it was difficult to justify Rome as being a liberated city just by its lack of murders. Violence still occurred every day, Dominicus having been witness to many petty thefts and family disputes since he’d been in the city. Only a month or so had passed since he’d left the countryside, but sometimes he felt like he knew the city inside out. And yet, on many other occasions, he still wasn’t sure where he was at all, and the city always had new surprises for him. Rome left so much to explore, so much that he believed he would never quite get to see it all. Every time he thought he understood the city, the politics, the people and the attitudes changed again. Everything fell to pieces and glued itself back together nightly.  
  
In the busy marketplace, Dominicus found himself wondering what it was like on the designated market days. If these people made a living from their shops, how did they cope whenever the rich stampeded into the forum to try and haggle with them? He supposed that they would enjoy it, able to get money from the rich instead of the slaves who they usually sent down to do their dirty work for them, but then it must be horrendously tiring. He knew that he himself wouldn’t want to go down and do the shopping each day, instead sending out a slave to do that for him. Thinking about it, Dominicus remembered that was one of Matteus’ jobs, taking it over from Vatia, who claimed she was too busy in the kitchen to be going on errands. The thought of his unruly slaves made Dominicus grind his teeth together, and he fumed anew before browsing through the shops.  
  
Every time he passed through a door, he was greeted with false cheeriness, the owners of the shops never failing to say, “Good morning, citizen! How may I help you?”  
  
“I’m just having a look around,” he would answer, and he would become just another visiting plebeian. For, in his tunic, he looked no different from every other Roman citizen. His hair was a dirty blonde from the pollution of the city and the lack of baths in previous days, and the seal on his iron ring was not well known in these parts - or any, for that matter. The only people who truly respected him were those on the Caelian who had known his grandfather and were aware of the sort of company he had kept.  
  
While Dominicus was holding a jar of spices in his hands and holding it up to his nose to take a whiff, he began to contemplate what exactly he was doing. He had much work to do, and he was supposed to be in the Senate House in the afternoon anyway. He knew that he was supposed to be taking things out of the _alae_  and making sure that all his notes were in order for the trial later on, yet here he was perusing the goods of some poor man in Rome’s most impoverished district and scowling to himself over something as silly as the loyalty of his slaves. As if any of that mattered!  
  
But of course, thinking about his job also made him angry. He was a  _notarius_ , the man in charge of taking minutes and making sure that every word spoken is recorded for the future, which, as he said to all his friends, was an incredibly respectable job considering what he  _could_ be doing. The Senate House was a very organised place, and he had learnt from those who had learnt from the great Tiro, Cicero’s slave-turned-freedman, who was considered to be the best _notarius_  there ever was. Dominicus took a sort of vague pride in his job, excited that he could say he worked at the Senate House, but sometimes he felt like it wasn’t enough for him. What alumnus from a private rhetor-and a very expensive, very sophisticated one at that-ends up being a secretary? He wanted to be the one speaking! He wanted to stand on the Rostra himself!  
  
After bidding goodbye to the shop owner, Dominicus made his way to the Forum. He couldn’t do any harm to turn up early, he reasoned, and he wanted to get a good look at the people around him before he entered. One of his favourite hobbies was standing back and staring at the Rostra, which was lavishly decorated with all the proud declarations of war brought back by former emperors, and daydreaming. He imagined himself standing on it, wrapped in a soft toga of the highest quality, his arms in the air as he addressed the Roman people and pleaded with them to support his case, to see his point of view, to be reasonable and know what is right. Dominicus wanted to be the next Cicero, but with more of a consideration for the rights and laws of the people. He wanted the people to be inspired by him, and wanted to do good for his fellow Roman citizens. He wanted that thrill of power which came with captivating an audience, desired to be a member of the inner circles. His family name would be known for centuries.  
  
Dominicus envisioned the great man he idolised preaching from the top of the Rostra, addressing the senators and the plebeians together, and convincing them that he must be the one they pick. He smiled as he silently recited the words to the speech, picturing the shocked faces of the opposition as Cicero delivered cleverly-worded barbs disguising carefully-chosen opinions. No wonder he was selected to be consul.  
  
Ever the optimist, Dominicus was almost sure that he would be up there one day, proclaiming his views to the world. He wasn’t sure how long he would be there or what the audience would think or even what the consequences of his speech would be, but he knew that he would achieve his goals and get as far as he needed to. He knew it.  
  
Sighing to himself, he moved away from the Rostra, ignoring the strange looks he received from the general citizens around him. They were far less optimistic, having been weathered by the Roman experience, and knew that they were condemned to this life forever. A slave remains a slave, a citizen remains a citizen, and the wealthy get greedier and greedier, just as the cycle always goes.  
  
This was the same phrase that Vatia kept repeating to Matteus, who had retreated to the slaves’ room and curled up in the corner, a forlorn expression on his face. She found him lying on his side, silent tears streaking down his cheeks but, instead of comforting him like he had hoped, all she did was berate him. He found himself being chastised for being so sensitive before being ordered about as though he were  _her_  slave, not Dominicus’.  
  
“You are a slave! You do the work, and nothing else!” she reiterated, pointing at him and prodding her index finger into his skinny chest. “Of course you can’t answer back to the Master! You have no place to do that!”  
  
“But he couldn’t get rid of it!” he wailed, sobbing into his hands again. “I’m so afraid of what he will do when he comes home. If he throws it out I will hardly be able to live with myself. If only I hadn’t pulled it out of the pile!” Another wave of tears flooded from his eyes and he shook his head in despair.  
  
“Don’t be so stupid, Blaesus!” She shook him and his head wobbled about, his body limp in her hands. “He would have thrown it out whether you found it today, tomorrow or on Saturnalia! You have no influence on his actions. You. Are. A. Slave.”  
  
“So you continue to tell me, yet you don’t conform! You spit in the Master’s drink! You swear at him behind his back. You talk about yourself as though you are the perfect example of a loyal slave, yet I have never seen anybody so unfaithful in my life! Who are you to tell me to be better?”  
  
At this, he felt a presence behind him, a shadow thrown over him so that he shivered. Darkness fell across the straw too, with only Vatia remaining the light, her green eyes twinkling at him as she sensed victory.  
  
“Blaesus, you will never learn. I’m not going to waste my time teaching you if you refuse to hear my wisdom.” She smirked at him and waltzed out of the room, grabbing Postumus by the wrist and tugging him along with her. With the Master heading out for work early, it meant that they could get up to something fun, and they weren’t going to let a miserable slave put a dampener on their day. As they say, when the Master’s away, the slaves will play-and run amok and make mischief, but they couldn’t tell him about that, of course.  
  
As Matteus watched them go, his thoughts churned in his head as he tried to find the answers to a question he could hardly even ask himself. Why had Dominicus picked him? In fact, why had those damned Romans come to his country in the first place? Why weren’t they satisfied with owning almost all of Europe and the East? If Emperor Claudius hadn’t been so greedy and wanted more territory, Matteus would have been at home with his family, and possibly a nice girl, speaking a language he didn’t have to struggle to find the words in and enjoying the freedom he was born into.  
  
All that had been taken away from him now. Even if he had been allowed to see parts of Europe he would otherwise have never seen and been integrated into a new culture with a rich man to pay for him and support him with tunics and food and the gods only knew what else, he still felt deprived of something.  
  
At some point or another, Matteus’ eyes began to droop, his mind still full of images of his journey hereto Rome, the massive boat that had brought all of the slaves, and many of their possessions, back to Rome as trophies to proclaim their triumph. He remembered the way they were all huddled together in one tiny room below the deck, they way some of them were chained up because they had been mischievous. The Master on that ship had forced them to work, taking the oars and crashing them through the sea so that they sliced up the foaming waves. He could still feel the prickle of sweat on his back, the itch of his loincloth on his upper thighs, the strain in his muscles and the sound of his own gasping amid the groans of so many others. Five hundred revolutions before they could pass it on to another slave. And the relief they felt was only brief, the softening of the ache in their muscles mixing with the guilt that pervaded their senses as they watched the pain flash across the face of the next unlucky slave.  
  
In his sleep, Matteus rolled across the floor of the room, straw sticking to his face where it was flushed with fear. His lips parted in a pitiful wail as, in his nightmare, the Master lashed him for stumbling when the ship rocked, his foot catching the back of another’s. He had tried to pretend nothing was wrong, quickly regaining hold of the oar, but the whip cut through the air with a whistling noise and sliced into his skin. He bit his lip, eyes scrunching up to hide his tears, ears burning with shame as the blood trickled out of the wound, leaving crimson streaks across his pale back.  
  
And then the house was silent. The birds tweeted outside; the noises from a neighbouring home drifted in on the air; Matteus breathed softly, his face now a peaceful mask. Vatia and Postumus were nowhere to be found.  
  
Dominicus stepped into the house in the evening, his tunic looked dirtier than usual and his arms full of wax tablets, and frowned when he met a wall of silence. He made for his library, laying the tablets out for copying them up after he’d had his dinner, and then paused to listen for noises, peering out at the atrium. There was a distinct lack of life in the house for a place with four inhabitants.  
  
Paranoia sinking in, he pushed the curtain out of the way and rushed into his bedroom, but none of them were in there. Everything was still intact. Shaking his head, he moved instead into the kitchen, wondering if Vatia was just making the dinner extra quietly because she knew he’d have a headache when he got back. However, he found this room was empty too, and the surfaces were completely clear, as though nobody had been cooking there at all. They were usually scattered with bread crumbs or a few splashes, even when she was at her least messy, but it looked as though it hadn’t changed since breakfast. Had the slaves not eaten lunch?  
Poking his head through every door, Dominicus searched for his slaves with increasing anxiety, curious as to where they could have possibly gone and also nervous that they were hurt - not so much for their wellbeing, but simply because he’d have to buy some more slaves if he lost them.  
  
When he finally reached the slaves’ room, his lips parted silently as he stumbled upon the creature inside. From within the doorway he could see Matteus sleeping, his chest rising and falling steadily with easy breaths, strands of hair falling across his face and onto his closed eyes. One hand was curled in and pressed to his chest, the other grasping a few bits of straw from around him. As Dominicus stepped closer, the slave twitched in his slumber and the man paused, not wanting to wake him for some reason. Perhaps it was the remnants of tear tracks on his face that held his footsteps or the fact that, due to his skinny frame, when he was curled up like this he looked no bigger than a young boy, not even old enough to have earned his manly toga.  
  
Dominicus left Matteus in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The best source I have found for information about the cithara is here (http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Gazetteer/Periods/Roman/Topics/Music/cithara/Britannica_1911*.html), but I found the actual construction of the instrument quite difficult to understand, hence the vague descriptions. The best image I've been able to find is probably something like this (http://www.vroma.org/images/mcmanus_images/apollocitharoede2.jpg). And as for it being the most beautiful music in the world, it actually sounds like this (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HlFpiNAOdUo), so you'll have to allow me some creative license.  
> In terms of Dominicus' job, I've pretty much made up his duties to suit my convenience. The position of a notarius did exist, and I imagine it involved similar things, but whether it matched up to Tiro's job is another matter entirely.


	5. V (Provocatio)

Vatia woke to a chill, the sun having set and taken all the light with it. She blinked in the dimness of the room as she rolled over, rubbing the remnants of sleep from her eyes. As soon as she heard the sounds of her Master padding around the house, scowled and scrambled up, kicking Postumus out of his own sleep. He grunted and pulled a face, picking himself up from the floor and brushing down his tunic. As they hurried back, they were whispering between themselves to decide what their excuses were. They snuck in through the slaves’ entrance, Postumus hiding in the toilet until his Master entered the atrium, Vatia dusting the statues in the spare room that was never used. When Dominicus came across them, he seemed baffled but said nothing to imply he had caught them.  
  
Upon ordering Vatia to make dinner for the four of them, Dominicus returned to his library, scratching his chin and the light stubble forming there as he wondered how he could possibly have missed them the first time around. He was sure that he had checked every room, and people were difficult to hide when the whole floor was empty. What had they been up to?  
  
Brushing off the feeling, he began to transcribe his notes from the tablets to the parchment, producing a stylus with ink and carefully writing out each word, his cursive almost perfect, not a single blotch on the sheet. The shelves with the scrolls were mostly taken up by court notes that had gone slightly wrong and he’d been too ashamed to give back to the Senate, but he hadn’t wanted to get rid of them in case he needed them for something, perhaps if he was required to have a copy of the notes at his house. Then-and only then-he’d thank the gods for letting him make a mistake.  
  
  
Vatia called them all out for dinner shortly after, when Dominicus was halfway through the pile of work, and he made for the dining room, knowing his food would be waiting for him there. The slaves, including Matteus, were still in the kitchen, probably eating the food which Vatia had not deemed good enough to put on his own plate, but he called them in. The three stood to attention by the door, watching his every move and waiting for him to give them a job. He dipped his bread into some garum three times before he began to talk to them, sucking the last drop of oil off his fingers. Matteus watched him warily from in the corner.  
  
“I’ve been asked to host a dinner party,” he finally told them, Vatia gasping nervously and even Postumus’ normally stoic expression wavering. Dominicus watched the blood drain from their faces with a childish satisfaction. The statement wasn’t strictly true, but Dominicus felt like he had been pressured into hosting one, so he would have put on a show anyway. The slaves didn’t have any use for technicalities. “There’s still a bit of time yet, a few weeks I should think, but I felt like I should warn you now so that you can be prepared. There is obviously a lot that Matteus needs teaching about decorum and parties, so I’m putting that duty on you two,” he nodded to the older slaves, who bit back groans as they glanced at Matteus.  
  
Dominicus continued, “I shall be very busy down in the Forum for the next few days, as there is an important case I’m working on; you needn’t wait for me to give you duties every time. I’m sure you can think of something to keep yourself occupied.” He dismissed them with a wave, taking some seared fish from his plate and leaning back into his original posture.  
  
Matteus followed the other slaves to the kitchen. Still shaken by the earlier event, he had remained quiet all day, clearing up the slaves’ room silently after he had woken so as not to alert people of his presence. He was too scared to ask why hosting a dinner party was such a bad thing, but Vatia began explaining to him while they were eating dinner anyway.  
  
“There are going to be lots of fat, wealthy men in togas from the here to dine with the Master. The aim is to impress; most of these bastards will be filthy rich, much richer than Dominicus, so he’ll be on his best behaviour in order to make a good impression. The old Master had dinner parties before and all the guests were pompous old men who treated their slaves like dirt. As much as I complain about life here, I’d much rather this than work for any of those pigs. I feel so sorry for the slaves of a rich senator, having to do his dirty work and never being allowed a shred of freedom at all.” She glowered as she remembered the man who had cupped her buttocks and asked about her, the old Master refusing to say anything that might upset his guests. She had been lucky that the man hadn’t helped himself to her later in the night; he was too drunk to even walk, let alone find her in the house. Still, the event had shaken her more than she liked to admit.  
  
“There’s lots of preparation to do, and it’s very tiring work. Often parties don’t finish until the sixth hour of the night, perhaps even later,” Postumus carried on. Matteus’ eyes widened almost comically as he thought about having to stay steady on his feet at so late an hour, “and they’re all drunk on wine, loud and boisterous, demanding and depraved. It’s an absolute nightmare.”  
  
“It’s really that bad?” Matteus asked.  
  
“Worse. I can’t do it justice. There just aren’t words for how much I detest dinner parties,” Vatia spat, grumbling into her wine. Matteus bit his lip, remembering to take her words with a pinch of salt. He still wasn’t sure whether he could trust Vatia, and with the way she kept shooting furtive glances at Postumus and her two-faced nature, he decided to keep away from getting too close.  
  
“Well, now that I’m here, your workload will be eased a bit, right?” Her face lit up, her eyes wide, shocked smile spread across her face, and declared,  
  
“Blaesus, I love you!” throwing an arm around his skinny shoulders, pulling him in close. He giggled as he was pressed into her chest, and then she released him, sprinting through the atrium and singing.  
  
“You’ve managed to make her smile twice now,” Postumus noted, watching her disappear into the peristyle with a slight smile. Matteus cocked his head to the side inquiringly, to which he added, “When you fell over was the first time. I think you might have made her year with that. She cackled about it for hours afterwards.”  
  
“Did she? I didn’t hear that! I don’t remember seeing either of you two at all, actually. You were quite unhelpful.” Matteus pouted, folding his arms across his chest.  
  
“Well, look who’s found his voice!” Vatia exclaimed, reappearing from behind Postumus. “I’d watch your mouth if I were you, Blaesus. Speak too much and your st-st-stammer might come back.” He blushed furiously at her snickering.  
  
“My name is not Blaesus!”  
  
“Vatia’s not mine! But you accepted it without thinking twice, didn’t you? I don’t think you have any right to complain. There are far worse things you can suffer than having somebody make you a nickname. Take it as a compliment. A friendly thing, if you will. I like you.” She flounced off, dragging Postumus with her, and Matteus was left alone, wondering how her moods could rise and fall so quickly, her volatility puzzling him.  
  
In search of something to keep himself busy, he found himself wandering towards the _alae_ , peering in and staring at the delights there. To his great relief, the cithara was still resting in the corner, and he tentatively made for it, dodging the other items in the room so that he could reach out for it. He stroked the wood with a shaking hand, his heart pounding so strongly that he thought it would break through his chest. If his Master were to find him touching his possessions, his punishment would surely be worse than a mere slap. Dominicus had been fair to that point, but Matteus didn’t put it past the man to snap soon enough.  
  
Clearing a space on the floor, he sat on the cold stone and crossed his legs, pressing his tunic down between his legs and blushing for only the walls to see. He leant down so that he could observe the instrument at eye level, taking in the taut, silk strings that extended from the pegs at the top right to the wooden base. The wood was slightly convex, the dim light in the room allowing for shadows to be cast around it, and Matteus trailed his hands over it, his fingertips catching on the little etchings. He tilted his head to follow the grain of the wood with his eyes, considering what would happen if they tinted it with the henna the refined women put in their hair, staining it a richer colour. That would be what they would have done back in Britannia, their instruments much more colourful, although not as exquisitely crafted as this particular specimen.  
  
“You really are fascinated with that thing, aren’t you?” The voice filtered to him from the doorway, and Matteus gasped and leapt up from his spot, his tunic creased where he had pressed it down.  
  
“Master, I-“ Dominicus held up a finger and shook his head.  
  
“Hush, slave. I want to know why you love it so much. Do you know how to play it?”  
  
Matteus shook his head sadly. “I’ve never seen one before.”  
  
“I’m not entirely sure why my grandfather owned one, to be honest. Nobody in my family is particularly musical. We’re scholars without the time for such frivolities.” Matteus looked away from him, remembering the performances that he had seen in the village square back in Britannia, every Saturday when the band would come and play for them, and smothered a sigh. They hadn’t possessed a natural flair for the music, but they had been skilled enough to entertain, and the dancing and joy it inspired had been the highlight of Matteus’ week.  
  
“I imagine he purchased it in Greece when he visited there. He often spoke about their celebrations and dances to us when we visited him. I do not understand the Greeks and their constant urges for fun,” Dominicus continued, “I’ve never seen the appeal.”  
  
“Then I should think that you’re missing out, Master,” Matteus offered quietly, prompting his Master to raise an eyebrow at him.  
  
“Oh, really? When you’ve had an education and upbringing such as mine, there is not much you miss out on.”  _Except for all the pleasures of simply being human_ , Matteus thought, hoping that all that which he loved had not been lost. He could take many things, could take being ripped from his family and flung into a new, supreme society, but the loss of music, the exaltation of the soul in a tangible form, was something he knew he couldn’t exist without.  
  
“I suppose so. There is always something still to learn, though, Master.”  
  
“Are you suggesting that I’m not intelligent enough?”  
  
“N-no! Not at all, Master! I’m sure your intelligence is more than sufficient. I’m just suggesting that there is more to life than facts you learn through books and studying. P-perhaps you need to give music the chance to take your hand.” Dominicus snorted and folded his arms, staring down at the instrument as though it were a rat in his kitchen.  
  
“And who would be the person to show me that, slave? You?”  
  
“You can do it yourself. It doesn’t need teaching, doesn’t need somebody to tell you what you must and must not do. It’s-it’s for your own interpretation. Private study, sort of, but like leisure instead.”  
  
“Leisure.” The word was laced with bitterness, and Matteus noticed his Master even took a step backwards as though avoiding all thoughts of such a horrendous thing. A small smile flickered across his face but he remained silent, allowing that to sink in. He didn’t want to make it seem as though he had superior knowledge to his Master, who had been well-educated and obviously knew many things of the grand city, but in other ways he was more world-wise than Dominicus would ever be.  
  
“Fine, then,” Dominicus finally allowed, nodding at the instrument. “You may use it- I certainly don’t care for it enough to keep it for myself. You can try to convince me to love the thing.”  
  
“And if I succeed?” The master paused and stared right into Matteus’ eyes, wishing to read his thoughts. Something twinkled there in the cerulean depths, something that he could sense but couldn’t quite understand. He was half tempted to offer something, just to see if the boy had fight within him. He wanted to see commitment and dedication, wanted to see passion and enthusiasm, wanted to see him take on a cause. But then the words of his father came back to him, reminding him to keep a slave loyal but subdued lest they try any funny business.  
  
“Listen to yourself, slave!” he cried, throwing his hands in the air. “If you succeed I shall provide you with food and shelter just as I already do. You should be grateful enough for this already.” He shook his head as though disgusted at the boy’s behaviour, torn between keeping up the act and giving in to his silent wishes. He deliberated for a moment more, watching the way the slave petulantly thrust out his bottom lip, smirking to himself when he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist an impossible challenge. “If you succeed, you may keep the cithara and play it as much as you like.”  
  
Matteus’ eyes lit up at the prospect and he stared longingly at the instrument, his eyes roving over every inch of the flawless polish. To think that he could have it in his arms, teach himself how to play it and caress each string with the greatest care! To think that he could create music, pour out his grief and his pleasure without having to think about finding the words and translating them into Latin! To think that he could own something, even as a slave! There were many things he didn’t understand about Roman society, but he knew well that a slave was property. Owning an instrument would surely be a gift from the gods.  
  
“Don’t look so happy, slave,” Dominicus scolded playfully, “you haven’t quite earned it yet. Go on; off with you! There’s work to be done in the kitchen.”  
  
Matteus grinned, rushing past his Master to find Vatia, assuming that his workload wouldn’t be too heavy. Dominicus bent down and picked up the cithara, staring at it and feeling the weight of it in his hand. He couldn’t comprehend the look in Matteus’ eyes when he saw the thing in the room, could hardly imagine feeling the same way about something so meaningless. Even if he could make music from it, what would that do for him? That wouldn’t get him a chance to stand on the Rostra. That wouldn’t make the elders and the equestrians respect him. That wouldn’t make any of his dreams come true.  
  
Then again, why was he trying to understand the mind of a slave anyway? He knew nothing about the boy’s background except that he was educated enough to speak Latin and came from Britannia. What did he care whether he’d been brought up in a certain religion or whether they’d dance under the moonlight in spiritualistic rituals? He had no idea what went on outside his own country; he wouldn’t have even been aware of what happened 50 miles from the city if he didn’t receive letters from his family in their villa near Neapolis.  
  
Questions, questions, questions. Dominicus left the  _ala_  and made for his library, searching through his drawers for the most recent letter from his father, unrolling the parchment and stroking over the already broken seal, seeing a symbol very similar to his own pressed into the wax. He scanned the letter again, grinding his teeth at the mention of his job. For some reason his father seemed to think that his son would earn senatorial status upon arriving in Rome, clearly completely ignorant of all Roman politics. He liked to pretend that he knew everything, but every man, even the slaves, knew that it took many years of hard work to get a place in the Senate House. Either that, or you needed to have enough money to bribe your way in. They said that Emperor Claudius was fairly weak and easy to sway, but Dominicus didn’t have the money to flatter him. Besides, where was the honour in cheating? He wanted the delicious satisfaction of success of his own doing, climbing up the ranks by himself and finally achieving what he wanted. If Cicero could do it, why couldn’t he?  
  
Dominicus hadn’t yet replied to his father’s letter, but he had received it over a week ago, and his father would be beginning to wonder why he hadn’t returned any correspondence. Sighing to himself, he took a seat and pulled some parchment towards him, writing out the typical greetings and asking about the family before coming to a halt, unsure of what to put. How was he supposed to defend himself whilst making sure that he still pleased his father with the content of his letter? How was he supposed to proclaim his thoughts without offending the man who had brought him up, who was responsible for his education and his demeanour, who had taught him how to be a citizen and what is right and proper? He had provided Dominicus with food and shelter for his childhood years, given him everything that he wanted and even allowed him to try and earn some money on the farm himself before his grandfather died and left him the villa. After all this he was entitled to share in his son’s success, whatever that may be.  
  
Dominicus sat in the study until late at night, unaware that the slaves had taken themselves to bed, and that most of the lamps around the house had been blown out. It was only when a breeze through the window stole away the last of the flames in his study that he stopped working, laying down his pen and parchment and leaning back in the chair, closing his eyes and yawning. The gods only knew how late at night, or possibly early in the morning, it was, and as he stretched and felt the burn of an ache shoot through his shoulders, he flopped backwards in a daze. One hand reached out to rub his eyes but never made it, falling slack as he succumbed to sleep.  
  
  
Dominicus didn’t wake up when the sun arose and shone through the window onto the unfinished letter. He didn’t wake up when the slaves awoke and began preparing the house, looking curiously at the shrine in the atrium when they saw that gifts hadn’t been left there the night before. He didn’t awake when Vatia shouted at Matteus following the loud clanging of a pan falling to the floor and rolling around in the kitchen.  
  
Concerned that their Master hadn’t awoken when he was usually up so bright and early, the slaves decided to peek in on him, peering around the corner of his bedroom. Postumus was chosen to do the job under the pretence of looking after him, as he was the closest to a bodyguard that Dominicus had, and he crept past on light toes. When he looked inside, however, he found the room empty. He re-emerged from the room and shook his head, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.  
  
“Do you think he g-got up especially early and went out already?” Matteus asked, nervously twisting his fingers and linking them together.  
  
“No, he won’t have done. We got up when it was still dark outside. No Roman citizen gets up that early, especially not to go outside. I wouldn’t recommend walking around Rome in the dark, Blaesus.”  
  
“I’ll go and look for him. If he’s definitely in the house then he can’t be far.” Matteus hurried off, making first for the peristyle to check if Dominicus was gazing out at the city like he had the other day.  
  
Vatia sighed and twisted her hair, saying, “He’s too eager. Why does he even like the Master so much?” Postumus shrugged as she began pacing the room and grumbling. “He’s only been here two days and yet he’s already in love with him, despite being told off so much. I thought we’d at least be able to have some fun, but he’s just like a little sheep.”  
  
“That doesn’t mean we can’t have fun with him, though,” Postumus grinned, and he fixed her with a knowing look. A slow smile spread across her face, his lips quirking mischievously.  
  
“I love the way you think.”  
  
  
Dominicus was not to be found in the peristyle, nor was he already at work in either of the alae, nor reclining and beginning his breakfast in the dining room. Finding himself back in the atrium, Matteus knelt down in front of the shrine, thinking back to when Postumus had explained how religious Dominicus was. He picked up the little wooden figures of the  _penates_ and studied them, feeling that even these were much more intricate than the crude models some people had kept back in Britannia. Matteus had never understood the motives behind it.  
  
Placing the figures back before the hearth, he began to rack his brains. Why had Dominicus not left at least something small? On the first night he’d left a cup of wine, yet this morning the floor in front of the shrine was bare. Had something happened to the man before he went to bed? He tried to recall the night before, remembering only that he had been dismissed from the  _ala_  and went to bed happy, able to sleep soundly and briefly forgetting about any loneliness that he may have otherwise been consumed by. He hadn’t seen the Master since then, so he didn’t have a clue where he could be. Why had he gone to bed early? What sort of a slave was he, to shirk duties and leave his Master wandering about the house without a slave to assist him?  
  
Scratching nervously at a spot on the back of his neck, Matteus thought of what he could do. The only two places he hadn’t seen for himself were Dominicus’ bedroom and the study, both places he wasn’t allowed to enter without an invitation. There was no way he could go in either of them without his Master finding him out and scolding him. When there was something as important as the cithara on the line, he wasn’t willing to risk losing it because of careless behaviour when he clearly knew the rules that had been set out.  
  
Suddenly, Matteus knew what he could do, and he bit back a victorious grin. He slipped out of the house via the slaves’ entrance and made his way to the front, squinting up at the cloudy sky and grimacing. It was still warmer than this time of year back in Britannia, but the sunny weather he had experienced recently in Rome was nowhere to be found. His tunic suddenly felt much thinner, and he shivered as a gust of breeze caught him off guard.  
  
Still, there was the window he had leant through the other day and accidentally frightened Dominicus. He stepped up to the window and stared in at the shadowy room, taking in the parchment spread out messily on the table, a few scrolls and styluses having fallen to the floor. The wick in the lamp on the table was completely burnt out, and he imagined that any oil there had also been exhausted. The main thing his eyes were drawn to, however, was the slumbering body in the chair, Dominicus’ chest rising and falling softly, his face clear from any emotions. Seeing him when he was peaceful in sleep, it became apparent how tense the Master usually was, his forehead pinched and his jaw firmly set. Like this, he seemed just like any citizen-any slave, even.  
  
Matteus stepped back from the window with the ends of his lips curled up slightly and began to turn away. When he glanced down at the road, however, he saw many people out and about, the city fully awake and moving already. The shop doors were already flung wide, any market stalls already set up and sellers dealing out what they could. The city had been alive for several hours, and much of the morning had passed them by.  
  
Matteus remembered a trick his father had taught him when they went hunting for food back in Britannia. He had been about fourteen and wasn’t particularly good, his aim sloppy, his throwing arm weak. However, his father had taught him how to mimic the sounds of the different birds they could see flapping about in the thick canopy of the forest, his secret way of coaxing larger animals out of the copse of trees and into view. Stepping back to the window, Matteus pursed his lips and pressed his thumbs to them, whistling a lilting tune in the hope of waking up his Master. He noticed Dominicus’ eyelids were beginning to flutter, eyelashes brushing against the tanned skin of his cheeks, and ducked down so that he was out of sight, continuing to whistle.  
  
Dominicus groaned as he stretched, his body beginning to wake up. There was an ache in his upper back that shot up his neck as he moved, and as he got up from his position and took in the room around him, he realised where he was. He ran a hand through his messy hair and straightened his tunic, accidentally knocking a scroll off the desk.  
  
“What is that irritating noise?” he grumbled, Matteus hearing him and scrambling away from the window with a grin. He crept back to the slaves’ entrance and made his way into the house, finding a task with which to busy himself in one of the rooms. In his library, Dominicus rested his hands on the windowsill and leant out, searching for the source of the noise, but the day revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Screwing his nose up, he looked around him and cursed, remembering writing the letter the night before. He rolled up the unfinished letter on the desk and put it to the side, thinking of all the work he had to do that he still had not yet finished. How late in the day was it?  
  
He stepped out of the library and was immediately greeted by Matteus, who was sweeping up the dry leaves that had been blown in through the roof over night.  
  
“What hour is it?” he demanded.  
  
“About the fifth, I believe, Master,” the slave replied, staring at the way Dominicus’ hair was flattened on one side where it had been resting against the wall. He sniggered.  
  
“The fifth hour? The fifth hour!” Dominicus screeched, grabbing the slave’s wrist. Matteus squeaked at the surprise and dropped the broom, letting Dominicus drag him along. He tripped over his own feet at the hurried pace and remembered being in a similar position two days ago, when he’d first been brought to the city. “I’m going to be late! Jupiter, spare me!”  
  
Dominicus pulled the confused Matteus out of the front door with him and raced down to the Forum, the door swinging on its hinges with Postumus gaping after them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know basically nothing about what Britain was like before the Roman invasion. I've borrowed a book on it from my teacher but it mostly talks about the military invasions, and only spares a few pages to talk about Celtic lifestyle. I might come back and change things once I've read a little more if what I've written is entirely wrong. Also, in case anyone was wondering, Matteus is from Isca, or modern day Exeter. He would've been in the Dumnonii tribe, and I imagine his language and accent would've sounded kind of like modern day Welsh, but don't take that as gospel.


	6. VI (Curia)

Dominicus grumbled to himself as he raced down the Caelian, Matteus in tow, and he shivered as he realised he should probably have brought a cloak with him. It seemed November had turned suddenly and winter was coming in far sooner than he had expected. Goosebumps rose on his arms as he stormed down the hill and into the city, pushing people out of the way as he tried to get past. He heard many people shouting angrily after him, a few shaking their fists if he knocked something over, and Matteus repeatedly cried out, “ _Ignosce nobis!_ ” as he was dragged along. The slave vaguely recognised a few of the streets that he had been brought through on his first day in the city, but much of it was unfamiliar territory, with unfamiliar people he didn’t want to upset.  
  
When they arrived in the Forum, however, everything changed. There were still busy Romans hurrying around, but Matteus suddenly felt as though he had been put right in his place. Dominicus’ pace slowed down to a respectful walk and he was able to take in the sites. He could see several important men walking around in togas, deep purple stripes up the side of the fabric to mark their position as a senator, and they were followed around by large retinues of people, some in togas and others clad in neat tunics, ready to adore the men they traipsed after. The market stalls were all clustered on one side, with men and women hollering at each other as they tried to haggle over prices, throngs of people crowded around to quickly scan the  _Acta Diurna_ before they were jostled out the way; on the other side, where the Senate House was, they completely fell away, leaving the majesty of the buildings to take control. Here was the Temple of Castor and Pollux, huge and imposing, resplendent even in the dim light. Here was the Rostra that Dominicus had been admiring, covered with the majestic prows of boats, a crowd clustered around the bottom. And here was the Curia Julia, More and more people drifted from the market stalls as they saw the commotion going on around the Senate house and, without even knowing what was happening, joined the back of the crowd to get in on the action.  
  
Dominicus turned to enter the senate house, letting go of Matteus’ wrist and rearranging his hair, retying the belt around his tunic. He turned to the slave and hissed, “You must be on your best behaviour here, or the consequences will be unimaginable. Do you understand?” Matteus trembled and nodded. “Good. I might need some help with my work, but otherwise you are to wait on me and, if any of the senators ask you for anything, you must do their duty too. They are of a much higher rank than I; I cannot deny them my service. I would suggest that if you wish to avoid work, you do not draw attention to yourself.”  
  
He made for the room with the scrolls in, passing through and collecting a few necessary pieces of equipment before he entered into the room of the debates and trials itself. Matteus gaped as he was led into the room through the side entrance. If he had thought Dominicus’ grandfather had owned many wonderful statues and paintings, and that his own atrium was lavishly decorated, the house suddenly paled in comparison. The room itself was enormous, the roof almost as high as the sky itself and wide enough to fit Dominicus’ whole house. The walls were covered in creamy marble, his eyes tracing the patterns of the swirls in the material, and little niches had been cut into the walls which held busts of great senators past. There were several steps on which rows of seats rose in three tiers on either side of the room, where many important and well-dressed people were sitting and waiting for the discussion to begin. At the opposite end he could see the Altar of Victory, a statue of a beautiful woman standing on a globe, her arms outstretched in exaltation, one hand holding a wreath, with a great smile on her face. Even the floor he walked on was beautiful, an intricate pattern of flowers and shapes having been laid in all colours he could imagine: vibrant greens and scarlets, purple richer than that of a senator’s toga, saffron and vivid blue.  
  
A few of the nearby slaves chuckled at Matteus’ obvious awe, having been working here for their Masters for several years. When Dominicus moved away and left Matteus in the corner with them, one of them approached him, laying a hand on his shoulder. He tore his eyes away from the spectacle to turn towards her, and she grinned at him.  
  
“I take it it’s your first time in here,” she said, to which he could do nothing but nod. “I remember when I first came in here. It’s really spectacular. I’d say it’s probably the most beautiful place in the world, although I wouldn’t really know.”  
  
“My homeland is beautiful, but not as magnificent as this,” he admitted.  
  
“He’s your Master?” She nodded over at Dominicus, who was much shorter and slimmer than those he was surrounded with, and also more shabbily dressed.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I’ve seen him around here for a while. He seems nice enough, although he’s a bit of a suck-up.” Matteus pressed his lips together to suppress the smile that curled the edges of his lips.  
  
“He is good to me.” She nodded and rolled her eyes.  
  
“Well, that’s great. He’ll probably be sending you on errands today while he’s busy in here with the court, so you’ll need to know where to go. If you’re ever lost, you can come find me right here and I’ll tell you where to go.”  
  
“T-thank you, that’s very kind.” Dominicus was coming back, then, and he handed Matteus a few wax tablets and a stylus. Matteus ran his fingers over the top one, pressing his nail into it and staring at the mark he made. How was he meant to write on this?  
  
“What are you doing?” Dominicus hissed. “That’s not for you, stupid slave! I just need you to hold it for me.” Matteus’ cheeks flushed a deep crimson and he bit his lip, his teeth catching the skin and drawing a single drop of blood. His tongue darted out to lick it, the salty tang making him cringe. “I am going to be making notes of what happens. Somebody else is copying out the speeches today, thank the gods, as I am still quite tired, but I need to make sure that the reactions and times are marked out for the records. If I need something, you must fetch it for me.”  
  
He sat down on the step closest to the ground, the space clear as it had been reserved for him, and took a tablet from Matteus, placing it on his knees and writing out a title. Matteus stood by his side silently and waited for the proceedings to begin.  
The court was discussing the upcoming trial of a young man who had been accused of stealing from every shop in the street. Usually this sort of ordeal would be sorted out quietly with a day-long case, but this particular man was a patrician with a well-known family name. He came from noble descent and he was putting up a fight, as not only his freedom but his reputation was on the line. The two men who were due to become consul the next year, Crispus and Taurus, were watching sharply from the side of the room, and they had slaves by their sides doing the same job as Dominicus. The blonde looked up at them and wrinkled his nose up in disgust, ashamed that he was doing the same job as somebody else’s slaves. A slave’s job! His father would flay him alive.  
  
The trial was long and arduous. Many men thought it was too trivial to be taking part in and got restless, fidgeting in their seats and refusing to negotiate and co-operate. Three times Dominicus requested another tablet from Matteus, and when he had run out of spares, the slave had to weave his way through the crowds of people who were clinging to the outer edges of the room to hear the debate. For the senators, this may have been boring, but the public wanted to the chance to hear an important speaker for themselves, and their faces were lit with excitement.  
  
After standing still for nearly two hours in a row without having had any breakfast, Matteus was starting to feel a bit faint, wobbling on his feet. Dominicus cursed at him and he attempted to remain still, but he closed his eyes for a few seconds to catch his breath and nearly toppled over. Red with rage, Dominicus sent him out to fetch some water from the nearest place he could find, knowing full well that Matteus would get there and realise he had nothing to bring it back in. He’d have been better off coming alone instead of bringing the foolish slave. He could hear tittering from behind him and turned to see some citizens holding their hands up to their faces so that they could giggle behind them, thinking he couldn’t see their mocking. He trained his eyes on the tablet resting in his lap and ignored them, refusing to let a blush colour his cheeks, refusing to react to them at all.  
  
Matteus wandered out of the main room back to where the scrolls were kept, seeing a few other slaves milling about. He had already passed the slave who had offered to help him when he left the trial, so he was unable to recognise his whereabouts and his fellow slaves. He shuffled through the shelves, trying to find an exit, and wondered where on earth he would find the water tap. He didn’t want to have to walk too far away otherwise he would leave his Master for far too long. Fully aware of the fact that he was showing Dominicus up in front of the senators and important men, he hurried out of the back door that he had just spotted, this particular door not crowded with citizens. He was again hit by a gust of wind that froze his skin and he shuddered, choosing to walk speedily so he could generate some warmth for his poor limbs.  
  
Behind the senate house he found himself in yet another estate, crowded with large houses like Dominicus’ own. Here there were a few people milling about in the streets, slaves who paid no attention to him and ambling citizens who didn’t care for the business of the senators. They held their heads proudly, turning their noses up at the retinues and adoration in the Forum. Matteus scurried past them unnoticed, weaving his way through the roads to try and find a water tap like he had seen earlier.  
  
Finally he arrived in a little square, with different roads springing off it to take him elsewhere in the city, and found a fountain with clean water springing up. There weren’t any children jumping around here, no flustered mothers collecting water for their evening meals and cooking; Matteus was the only visitor to the square. He turned around in a full circle, staring up at the buildings that rose around him, wondering about all the people who lived in the  _insulae_. It was strange to see such large houses next to the blocks of flats, knowing that the tenants could own barely a window for themselves. Once again he counted himself lucky that he had been taken in by a benevolent man, and then went searching for something to use for a cup, hoping Dominicus would at least appreciate his innovation.  
  
Searching through the things that had been left at the edge of the square, he found an abandoned plant pot and splashed it under the water, clearing any stray dirt from it so that it would be safe to drink from. The pot was quite large, the colour of the sky in the eleventh hour, and he filled with with clear water. He was desperate for a drink himself, his mouth dry and throat parched, but he couldn’t find another pot anywhere in the square. Not daring to drink from his Master’s cup, he began to carry it back to the Senate House, still shaking slightly from his weariness, and left a trail of water droplets in his wake.   
  
When he returned, he slipped in through the back, the silence eerie. He couldn’t hear the booming voice of an orator like he had before, nor could he hear the chatter of a crowd discussing matters. It almost seemed as if everybody had left already, yet he had hardly been gone for fifteen minutes. He peeked in through the main door and saw that everybody was sat silently, staring at the man who was standing in the middle of the room. He glared back at them, his fists clenched, jaw tight. Matteus presumed he was the charged man and took a step back, but as he did so he bumped into a slave who was entering the room and didn’t see him moving. They collided, hushed apologies falling from both of their mouths as Matteus tripped over the other slave’s feet. Despite their attempt to be quiet, however, neither could help it as the pot flew from Matteus hands through the air. The water poured out as it turned over, splashing both Matteus and the other slave before it crashed down to the floor, shattering into pieces on the intricate pattern. The little remaining water leaked out and spread across the floor, seeping under Matteus’ feet. He gaped at the mess through strands of soaking wet hair, feeling like he’d been in this situation before, and quaked in his sandals.  
  
“What on earth is that noise?” A loud voice barked from the front of the room, and Matteus turned his wide eyes away from his now broken ‘cup’ to see a large man moving out from the seats and storming towards him. He whimpered, bowing his head in respect but chewing his lip with nerves as his hands clenched in the sodden fabric of his tunic. Dominicus peered over at the spectacle and groaned, cursing Fortune for giving him such a bad fate. How had this happened? What did he do to deserve this? He got up from his place in the seats and slipped towards the scene, hoping to sort out the situation quietly but also aware of everybody’s eyes on his back.  
  
“Pardon me, esteemed judge. My slave is new and this is his first time in the Senate House. I understand that-“  
  
“I don’t want to hear your excuses, boy,” the senator spat, and a light colouring spread across Dominicus’ cheeks. “Look at the mess he has made! What was he even doing?” Dominicus looked down at the ground, nudging one of the pieces of the pot with his toe as he avoided the puddle.  
  
“It appears as though he was bringing me water, sir. He only meant well.”  
  
“I don’t  _care_  if he meant well! He has interrupted the proceedings! I hope you will see to it that he is suitably punished.” Matteus’ horrified gasp did not go unnoticed.  
  
“But of course.” The man narrowed his eyes at Dominicus, searching his face for any sign of resistance. When he was satisfied that the man had been shamed and his disgraced slave would be chastised well, he sighed.  
  
"You are dismissed, Dominicus," the man said in a bored tone, and he turned away, a slave following him and carrying the tablets that Dominicus had been holding. The blonde swallowed, looking around at people, staring right back into their grinning eyes and feeling the mocking hitting back at his heart. He whirled around and stormed out of the building, the slapping of his sandals against the floor ineffectual amongst the chatter that arose behind him.  
  
"What were you playing at?" he yelled as soon as he was out of the building, back in the suburb that Matteus had been in a few minutes before. "What on earth did you think you were doing?"  
  
"I-I'm sorry, Master, I really am!"  
  
"You might be sorry, but that doesn't mean you'll ever learn, does it? You never do! Every time you do something wrong I pardon you, and yet, even now, when I've given you an incentive to be good, allowed you to own a piece of property and given you privileges no slave should have, you still show me up. At my workplace, too! Those men behind me are the ones who requested a dinner party. I shall never hear the end of it!" he ranted, stomping through the streets so that the slaves wandering about cowered in the shadows and waited until he had passed.  
  
"Then punish me," Matteus whispered, hanging his head as he waited for Dominicus' verdict, walking behind him so he remained out of sight. It seemed that his Master hadn’t heard him, though, as he continued walking without glancing once in the slave’s direction.  
  
“I'll never make it up the ranks and I'll never become an orator and it's all your fault! Damned slaves and damn other people for getting in my way all the time! Did I ever ask for this? No!”  
  
“Punish me, Master,” the slaved repeated with a little more force, or at least enough to make Dominicus halt, turn around and raise an eyebrow at him. Tiny droplets of water slid down the slave’s fringe and fell to the ground. Matteus voice cracked as he begged, “Please.”  
  
"Punish you how? What will that help me? Will hurting you help me or will it just make you clumsier? Will taking away your privileges help me or will it just make you grumpy? You never  _learn_!" Dominicus groaned in exasperation, tugging at his hair, and shame crawled up Matteus' back, tendrils wrapping around his neck and clenching down so that he could hardly breathe because of the guilt.  
  
‘He is going to get rid of me,’ he thought, ‘this is surely the end now. He will give me back to the slave dealer and I will be sold to some horrid Master who will work me as hard as the slaves in the mine and break my back with a whip. How could I be so foolish as to not appreciate this treatment?’  
  
In his ruminations, Matteus didn’t realise that Dominicus had stormed off again. He hurried after him but caught his foot on a paving stone yet again and fell forwards, spreading his hands so that he could brace himself against the ground and instead finding himself catching Dominicus' legs. The Master cursed as he felt hands brush the backs of his shins and he leapt up in shock, twisting around and falling off balance. He too found himself in a heap on the ground and he rubbed his sore hip, wincing when he knew it would be bruised. He glowered at Matteus, who was face down on the road beside him, his hands still tangled painfully among Dominicus' ankles.  
  
"What in Hades are you doing, slave?" he demanded, pulling one leg free from the slave's grasp. As he wrenched the other away from him, he heard a pitiful cry and paused, crouching lower to peer at the slave's face. Behind the wet hair that had flopped into his eyes he could see tears glistening on his cheeks, slowly making their way down to his jawline before dripping onto the stones below. Matteus whimpered, curling up and throwing a hand in front of his face to hide his flushed cheeks and red-ringed eyes, but Dominicus pulled it away, pushing a hand under his chin and forcing him to look up. He looked right at the weeping slave and frowned.  
  
"What's this about, now?" Matteus shook his head, starting to get up from the floor, but Dominicus tugged him back down again. Matteus' knee grazed the stones and he gasped, wincing in pain as fresh tears flooded down his cheeks. The soaking fabric of his tunic stuck to his back and rubbed painfully. "Come on, slave, why are you crying so pathetically?" Matteus scowled, a hand rising to rub the tears away, leaving his cheeks pink. He looked away, his bottom lip wobbling, new tears forming in his eyes and making them shine. He remained silent, not replying to Dominicus' advances. "You have to answer me, you know. I demand it of you."  
  
Matteus stiffened, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes now hidden behind his fringe, and he took in a shaky breath.  
  
"I am a f-failure," he whispered, another tear trickling over his sharp cheek.  
  
Dominicus’ silence only confirmed the fact, and he choked on a sob as his arms wrapped around his torso. He shuddered, shivering in the cold as he cried, longing for home, for his mother, for somebody who would at least appreciate his efforts. Why did he do everything wrong? Why was he completely incapable of making his Master happy? All that he asked of himself was easy, so why was everything falling to pieces?  
  
“Come, now, stop acting like this.” Dominicus got up, holding a hand out to pull the slave up from the ground. “Have you thought about how you look? You’re absolutely soaking as it is, without the waterworks. No time for tears, Matteus.” The sound of his own name, unfamiliar in Dominicus’ low voice, jerked the slave out of his misery and he turned to his Master, staring through watery eyes as a blurry image of the blonde came into view. Dominicus’ tone may have been brusque, but there was something else there, a shake in his voice as he looked down at the slave, perhaps the wobble of compassion.  
  
Again, Matteus began to ask himself why he deserved such a thing, yet this time he felt guilt sinking like a weight in the pit of his stomach. He distracted himself by sniffling and running the back of his hand under his eyes, swiping the tears away and rubbing his hand on his tunic. Dominicus rolled his eyes but did not comment. He began to walk away, turning from Matteus so that he could allow his face to fall into a frown for the briefest second that he was out of sight. Matteus caught up with him, hurrying behind him in his squeaky sandals, and when he was beside him Dominicus found the sound of his breathing and his sandals on the ground surprisingly comforting, considering he had just flown into such a rage. He  _could_ sense that Matteus wanted to try hard and he _could_  sense that he really did like his Master, which was more than he could say for Vatia and Postumus. The slave dealer had been right, in a way, when he said that Matteus would provide companionship. He might be clumsy and a terrible slave, but he was at least loyal and good company.  
  
Dominicus led Matteus back to the house at a leisurely pace, traipsing up the hill and feeling the rumbling in his stomach. He groaned, turning back to the slave and asking, “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.” Matteus nodded dumbly, biting his lip. Dominicus sighed. “Must I do everything?” he grumbled and then snatched the slave’s wrist, tugging him towards the house. He pushed him through the entrance, making for the kitchen straight away and leaving Matteus in the atrium.  
  
As he had expected, he found the kitchen empty. He wasn’t supposed to be home for a few hours, so he wasn’t surprised that Vatia hadn’t bothered to make any lunch for him, but he had thought she would at least prepare some bread for herself and Postumus. He did find, however, the leftovers of the breakfast she had obviously made for him which he had never eaten. There were a few crumbs scattered around on the counter, and he realised that the two slaves must have helped themselves to a far nicer meal than they were usually used to.  
  
“Vatia!” he called, pacing around the room as he waited for her to arrive. He could hear hurried footsteps and placed his hands on his hips condescendingly. He still felt strange talking to them like this, Vatia and Postumus both a year or so older than him, but he knew it was his birthright - and the right of his superior upbringing and education - to have control over them. That was just the way the world worked, and the way it would always work, or so he imagined. Somebody had to control the lower masses. Somebody would have to take charge.  
  
“Master, you’re back earlier than I expected. I don’t have any food prepared,” Vatia apologised as she hurried into the room.  
  
“That’s quite alright.” She raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “I understand that I didn’t inform you of what I was up to at the Senate House, but we ran into a few problems and we had to come home early.” In the atrium, Matteus’ cheeks coloured yet again. “If you could make something quickly for Matteus and I now, that would be splendid.”  
  
“Of course, Master.” She moved past him to get the supplies from the cupboard area, pulling out some of the morning’s bread and some oils to dip it in. Dominicus leant against the wall to watch her, remarking, “I hope you enjoyed your breakfast this morning.”  
  
She cursed inwardly and brushed the crumbs from the counter onto the floor, making a mental note to clear them up after Dominicus had left. Couldn’t have him thinking she was lazy as well as rude and incompetent.  
  
“It was nice enough. My cooking is decent at least, so Postumus and I have been well-fed.”  
  
“If I were any other Master I would make sure that you received less at dinner time. Luckily for you, I am me, not them, so you will receive your normal portion.”  
  
 _As if that’s some great charity,_  she thought bitterly.  _It’s not like he’s going out of his way to do anything kind. ‘Look at me, Dominicus, benevolent Master.’_  She remained outwardly passive, handing him two plates with slices of bread and cheese. He thanked her and took them out to the atrium, where Matteus was sat on the bench. He looked up as his Master entered the room and followed him into the library, Dominicus holding the door open for him with his toe as he waited for the slave to enter. The door swung shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have figured it out, but 'Ignosce nobis!' means 'Excuse us!'. I'm aware that trials weren't held in the senate house itself (and that my depiction of it is probably inaccurate-there's some pictures here (http://www.vitruvius.be/curjulia.htm), if anyone's interested) but creative licence etc right? Also I'm probably going overboard with the whole spilling drinks thing but a. I literally have no creativity and b. it was a bad omen so yknow the more things that go wrong the merrier. Hope you enjoyed :)


	7. VII (Thermae)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heheheheehe

Matteus had thought that, when he entered the library, Dominicus would lecture him or perhaps talk to him about what had just transpired. However, Dominicus sat down in his chair, handing Matteus the plate silently. The slave noted that he was eating exactly the same as Dominicus, no special preference given to the Master. Their slices of bread were equally well-cooked, thickly sliced and risen nicely. Matteus held the slice up to his nose and inhaled deeply, the homely smell of dough something that remained the same no matter where he was in the world, nor who was shouting at him.  
  
“I have to copy up these notes that I took before we were thrown out,” Dominicus remarked, Matteus looking away and stuffing some bread in his mouth just in case he was asked to speak. Dominicus paused and frowned when he noticed an absence in the room, asking, “Could you please fetch some wine? I think Vatia forgot.”  
  
Matteus resisted the urge to snort, already aware of the fact that any grievance she may cause Dominicus most certainly wasn’t accidental. He imagined her standing in the kitchen cackling to herself at the inconvenience and sighed, leaving the room to fetch two cups from the kitchen. Neither of the two had drunk any water after the episode in the Senate House, and after the walk home and the lack of nourishment in the morning, they were both incredibly thirsty. It took a bit of rummaging around in the larder to find the wine, Matteus amazed at how much was kept in the room at one time and wondering how long it took to get through that much food without it going off. As he stepped back out of the kitchen, he heard voices; years of listening in on his parents over the crackling of the fire had heightened his hearing, and he was immediately curious. Instead of returning straight to the library, he stepped towards the peristyle, the voices getting louder as he got closer to the slaves’ room.  
  
“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” he heard Postumus question, a nervous tone to his voice.  
  
“I’ve been planning it for long enough, haven’t I? I just need an opportunity, and one will surely arrive soon. The Master will travel down to the bay to meet his family and that will give me the perfect amount of time to exact my plan. It’ll be easy!” Vatia replied confidently.  
  
“You know how valued you are here, don’t you?” There was a derisive snort.  
  
“Valued? I don’t feel valued at all! In fact, I feel like I’m  _de_ valued more and more every day. Dominicus doesn’t give a damn about me!  _Merda_! I can’t stand this anymore, Postumus. I won’t stand for it. I have to get out of here or my head will explode.” Matteus gasped and inched closer to the room, pressing himself against the wall and feeling the stone scrape his back where his arms weren’t covered. He shivered against the cold again and craned his neck towards the room, catching Postumus mid sentence.  
  
“-consider it more. And I didn’t just mean the Master, you know.” There was a pause before Vatia replied, and her voice seemed softer, almost tender.  
  
“I know. But it can’t be helped, Postumus, you know that.”  
  
“It can. It can be helped; you just don’t want it to be,” he accused, and Matteus pictured him pointing at her, his hand shaking, breaking the facade of his usual unshakable stance.  
  
“Now, come on, you know that’s not true,” she reasoned with him.  
  
“Do I?”  
  
“You don’t trust me.”  
  
“Why should I? You’re conspiring against the Master behind his back! How do I know you’re not doing the same to me?” His voice, which had slowly risen as his agitation became evident, fell again, paranoia creeping over him. Vatia scoffed.  
  
“Why would I do that to you? You’re my fellow slave, not somebody I would want to overthrow.”  
  
Matteus squeezed his eyes closed, suddenly realising exactly what he was hearing. Two things became apparent: the first being that Dominicus, or at least his authority, was in danger, and the second being that he himself was incredibly alone.  
He moved away, leaving for the library once more, and felt a strange sensation hanging over him, as though it were winding around his legs and trying to trip him up. As he entered the atrium, he nearly bumped into Dominicus, and he paid extra attention to the cups in his hands so that he didn’t drop them.  
  
“Where have you been?” Dominicus demanded. “Why did it take so long to get a glass-“ he glanced down, “-two glasses of wine?”  
  
“I’m sorry, Master. I was distracted by a noise outside and went to see what it was.” Dominicus’ eyebrows rose and he stepped around Matteus.  
  
“A noise? Was there anything there?”  
  
“N-no, nothing to worry about, Master!” Matteus cried, darting forwards to stand in front of him and block the entrance. He raised his voice, hoping that the other slaves could hear. “I checked, and there’s really nothing out there. I must just be going mad.” He laughed falsely, his smile tight, but it satisfied Dominicus enough to make him turn around. He took the cup of wine from Matteus and waved him back to the library, muttering to himself. Matteus followed, asking himself why he had protected the other slaves and warned them of Dominicus’ approach. Surely it would be what they deserved if they were caught conspiring against him?  
  
“I must get some work done now,” Dominicus said from within the library, returning from within to hand Matteus the plate, the half-eaten slice of bread still lying on it. Matteus balanced it on his hand, the cup of wine still gripped in his other. “I suggest you find some way of making yourself busy. Nothing worse than an idle slave, after all.” He brushed the curtain to the library aside once more and left Matteus standing in the atrium, holding his food and dumbly staring after him.  
  
He walked towards the spare room, the sounds of Vatia and Postumus talking now much lower but somehow less conspicuous. Vatia giggled at something he said and Matteus let out a deep sigh, sinking to the floor in the spare room and crossing his legs. He picked up his bread again, tearing it to pieces with his long fingers but no longer able to stomach it. The guilt he felt at not revealing the plot to his Master was at war with the strange feeling coursing through his veins that he cursed, wondering why he felt like telling Dominicus would a betrayal and not a revelation. Surely it would be a good thing if he told him, he asked himself. Surely he would  _have_  to tell him, as a requirement of his loyalty as a slave! Yet he found that he couldn’t.  
  
Perhaps he could just feign innocence, or at least ignorance. It wouldn’t be hard for Dominicus to think the worst of him considering the way he had appeared so far.  
  
He leant against the wall and groaned yet again, wondering what was even the point of his being here if Dominicus didn’t give him enough work. Never mind Vatia complaining that the Master didn’t appreciate her; Matteus was growing bored because he never had anything to do! His mind was restless, his hands fiddling with the hem of his tunic to give them something to do.  
  
Suddenly he remembered the cithara that was sitting in the room next door and scrambled up from his position on the floor, racing to the neighbouring room. He waved at Postumus and Vatia inside, who paused their conversation and glared back at him with suspicion evident in their eyes, as he reached for the cithara that was kept in the corner of the room before carrying it back to the spare room.  
  
He sat back down on the floor again and tried to figure out how to play it. Resting it on the floor in front of him like a harp, he bent over it awkwardly and stroked the strings, listening to the various sounds they made. He winced when they sounded off, sure they were supposed to make a pleasant noise and not sound like a crow cawing. Fiddling with the notches at the top of the frame, he adjusted the sounds until they suited his ears, and then he proceeded to stroke the strings once more, his hand gliding over the silk and tickling the fabric as he tested it out. If he pressed from certain angles and at certain lengths along the strings they made different, higher pitched noises. A smile gracing his face, he began to pick out a tune, the same one he had whistled when first delivering the letter to Dominicus’ friend, and he wondered whether the letter had been received. What had the man thought of it? What was happening to the slave-girl who had taken it from him in his atrium? He bet she didn’t have the privilege of being able to own such a glorious thing as a musical instrument.  
  
As he gained confidence, he strummed the strings a little more forcefully but found they twanged and grated against the ears when he did so. Clearly light finger patterns were needed, delicate tracings of the pattern in the wood meaning delicate touches and much care were necessary. Once he’d got the knack of having it in front of him, Matteus pulled the instrument into his lap, curling on his side a little bit more so that it was nestled underneath his arm. Here he could access the bottom of the string to make the noise sound more pleasant than when it resonated through the wood, and from the top he could reach all areas of the strings so that the pitch could be changed.  
  
When he heard footsteps coming towards the room, he paused, putting the cithara behind him as though protecting it, shielding it from view with his body. Vatia appeared in the doorway, her eyes glistening.  
  
“Play some more,” she requested, her throat hoarse. He bit his lip, mumbling, “What would you like to hear?”  
  
“I don’t mind, just go with what feels best.”  
  
With a smile he complied, his fingers gliding across the strings as though they had become a part of him. Never had he learnt how to play an instrument, his musical experiences limited to singing by the fire and once being asked to a bang a drum in a particular ceremony. He had never had the privilege of touching such a delicate instrument before, let alone playing a song on it. A few times he got too ahead of himself, closing his eyes to lose himself in the music and finding himself losing his grip instead, but Vatia couldn’t keep her eyes off him anyhow.  
  
“I was not aware that you could actually play the thing,” a voice said from the doorway, and Matteus looked up to see his Master watching him, his lips quirked in a smile of what could possibly be appreciation. Did he really respect the slave for being able to do it? “Not that I am saying you have defeated me with music, for that will never happen, but I will admit that it does sound pleasant.”  
  
Matteus blushed and strummed the thing once more before putting it to the side. Vatia switched her weight from one foot to the other, waiting for her Master to give orders.  
  
“I have decided to go to the baths,” Dominicus continued. “I finished that work quite quickly, thank the gods, but the stress has left me quite out of myself. You will accompany me.” Matteus nodded without question and scrambled up from the floor, placing the cithara in the corner of the room. “I would like for dinner to be ready when we return.” Vatia said nothing, slipping out of the room to the kitchen to begin preparing.  
  
Tugging at his belt nervously, Matteus twisted the tassels in his fingers as Dominicus beckoned him out of the room. He waited in the atrium as his Master darted into the bedroom to fetch his cloak, rubbing his hands down his arms to generate some warmth as he realised that it was even cold inside the house.  
  
“My grandfather was going to move to a new place with heating, but he was too attached to this one,” Dominicus explained upon returning, noting the shivering slave. “I suppose I could move, but I would like to get settled first.”  
  
Matteus thought that it was easy for him to say when he had the privilege of wearing more layers and fancy clothing but kept his mouth shut, internally berating himself for sounding like Vatia. They left the house, walking back down the hill for the second time that day, although the walk didn’t make Matteus any warmer. It seemed as though a sudden chill had sprung up from nowhere, and he longed for the warmer clothes he had at home and the fire that the family sat around to cook their dinner with. He had seen the hearth in the atrium and he knew that Vatia had to cook the food, so why hadn’t he felt any warmth within the house?  
  
‘Maybe, he thought to himself, if Vatia runs away, I’ll be able to take over cooking duties and I’ll get to warm myself up all day.  
  
‘And also poison us all with my lack of cookery skills.’  
  
He stifled a giggle as Dominicus took him around the corner of the hill towards the south, where he saw a large building looking up in front of him. They had arrived at the entrance, the man standing by the door holding his hand out for the few coins that Dominicus pressed into his palm. Matteus dutifully followed after Dominicus with his head bent. He remained behind his Master, finding himself in the changing room around several other men and their slaves. Dominicus undid the tie of his cloak, passing it to Matteus, who balanced it precariously on the pile of things he was already holding, looking around for a place to put them. As he did so, the blonde pulled his tunic off over his head, passing that into Matteus' arms as well, and began to make his way to the first pool. Matteus' jaw dropped as he took in the view, his tanned skin and toned limbs stunning to say the least. He had long, slender legs and surprisingly defined muscles in his torso, considering he seemed as though he had never done any physical labour in his life. He reached up to rub his head and the slim muscles in his arm flexed, Matteus' mouth watering as he gaped after him.  
  
Then he caught himself. What was he doing? Lusting over his Master? His  _male_  Master? Since when had he thought such a thing?! Shaking his head, he scurried after him.  
  
They suddenly hit a wall of warmth, Matteus coughing as the steam filtered into his lungs, and he knew that they had found themselves in the  _caldarium_. Matteus’ previous complaints about being too cold melted away with the stifling heat. Here was the warmest room, the water heated by the fire beneath the floor, and he felt for the poor slave who was kept down there, stoking the flames so that his patrons wouldn't curse him. When Matteus' eyes had adjusted to the mist, he was able to pick out several bodies lounging in the pool, and many slaves standing around the outside with their arms crossed, some of them refusing to look at their Masters. Many of the men in the pool looked to be large and wealthy, with multiple gold rings adorning their fingers to flaunt their wealth. Matteus was proud that Dominicus wasn't like that, and he was also please to find that he was able to watch Dominicus slide into the pool without being noticed, seeing his firm buttocks disappearing into the water until it sucked him in whole.  
  
Dominicus disappeared beneath the surface for a moment before resurfacing for air, gasping and pushing his hair out of his face. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, feeling the stubble there grazing his hand, and winced, knowing he would have to pay a visit to a barber some time soon. He certainly wouldn't trust Matteus with a razor.  
  
He turned around to see where the slave was as he sank onto a ledge and found the boy watching him curiously. He frowned and Matteus looked away, pretending to be interested in one of the many mosaics that decorated the wall. The baths too were full of decoration, Dominicus' grandfather clearly not the only person who enjoyed looking at pretty things; and in many cases, pretty things meant pretty slaves. Matteus briefly wondered if Dominicus thought of his slaves like that and then blushed, pretending that the heat of the room was making him feel faint as he leant back against the wall.  
  
Some while later he heard a soft call and stepped towards the edge of the pool, looking down to see Dominicus beckoning him. He pointed at the strigil in Matteus' hands and nodded, Matteus swallowing nervously. Now came them time for him to wash Dominicus all over, and he knew he wasn't prepared.  
  
He definitely wasn't prepared.  
  
Suddenly the curling in his stomach made sense. The way he wanted to please his Master so much made sense, and the way he admired him the way the other slaves did not started to become clear. He had a crush, and he couldn't do anything about it. And now he would have to wash him.  
  
All over.  
  
Painstakingly slowly, he poured some of the cleansing oil into his palm, rubbing his hands together as Dominicus got out to sit on the edge of the pool. Then, he laid his palms on Dominicus' bare back, and began to rub circles into it, the oil covering all inches of his skin. Dominicus' eyes fell shut, his head lolling forward as he enjoyed the feeling of Matteus' hands massaging his muscles, which were sore from being bent over a desk all day long. It was exhausting work, even if it wasn't manual labour, and he groaned as the slave pressed into a particularly tender spot, Matteus gulping and biting his lip. He pulled away and replenished the oil in his hands.  
  
Dominicus then turned around so that he was facing the slave, but his eyes were closed as he enjoyed the massage, drips of oil running smoothly down his skin and into the water. The hair on his chest was like fine strands of gold, shining in the light that filtered in through the windows. He inhaled deeply, allowing the steamy air to filter into his pores and cleanse him inside as well as out.  
  
Shakily, Matteus took the strigil from the side where he’d rested it and quietly said,  
“C-could you please turn around so I can wash your back?” Dominicus moved without protesting, still in a daze with his eyes half-lidded. The water swirled around him as he moved, lapping at his chest and taking some of the oil away.  
  
Carefully, so that he wouldn’t hurt him, Matteus moved the strigil to his back and dragged it down his skin, pressing in lightly to scrape away the oil and any dirt there. Dominicus’ shoulders relaxed and his lips parted in pleasure as he felt the delicious burn down his back. Matteus bit his lip, rinsing the strigil and again scraping his back, the skin beneath the instrument clear and fresh, a few stray drops of water that dripped from his hair glinting in the light.  
  
Dominicus turned around automatically, facing him and letting Matteus clean his front. He took even more care here so that he didn’t hurt his Master, and when he accidentally caught the corner of the instrument in his skin, the boy nearly fell into the pool trying to right his mistake. Dominicus remained unflappable, however, and Matteus marvelled at the sense of calm in the room, the way all these distinguished Roman men became malleable in the water.   
  
Slowly, he moved the strigil right in the middle of Dominicus’ chest, between the definition of his pectorals and moving down towards his stomach where, when he hit the water, he moved the strigil to the side once more. As it moved down in the same hypnotising motion, however, the corner of the instrument caught Dominicus’ nipple. Dominicus swooned in the heat and groaned wantonly, bracing himself against the wall of the pool and trapping the strigil between his body. Matteus gasped, eyes wide, the instrument falling from loose hands as he stumbled back from the edge of the pool in shock. He could hardly breathe in the heavy heat as it was, yet somehow the temperature had sky-rocketed.  
  
“Why did you stop?” Dominicus asked, his eyes fluttering open as he pushed back from the wall, catching the strigil before it could fall to the bottom of the pool.  
  
“I-I don’t ... I don’t k-know,” Matteus stammered out, pressing his hand to his mouth and looking away at another slave who looked rather more displeased about his job then Matteus himself was.  
  
“Come back?” Dominicus asked gently , feeling particularly mellow now that his skin was soaked in warmth. He kicked his legs under the water, relishing the feeling of being free from the constraints of Roman society. There were other men in the pool with him but he could hardly see them for all the steam, and so he could pretend that it was only him there. Him and Matteus.  
  
Matteus returned and knelt by the edge of the pool, receiving the strigil from Dominicus’ hands and placing it on the side. The oil was all but removed from his body now, and Dominicus plunged under the water, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his breath as the water rushed around him. He curled up so that his arms were wrapped around his knees, bobbing to and fro happily. Above the surface, Matteus saw a stream of bubbles and peered into the water. It was just about clear enough to see Dominicus’ blonde hair floating about, but other than that, the man who was such a dominant presence in his life was only a blur.  
  
When he resurfaced, said hair was plastered to his face, darkened by the water and sticking to his skin. Dominicus grinned boyishly at the stunned slave and then pressed one hand on the edge of the pool, beginning to clamber out as he raised his knee through the water. The sound of the water sloshing around him spurred Matteus into action and he reached down to help him up, gripping his forearm and pulling him out of the water. Dominicus scrambled quite ungracefully over the edge, a portly man sat in the corner of the pool sniggering unashamedly at him. Matteus frowned, confused as to how he was supposed to be any more careful about getting out, and followed his Master through an archway to the next room.  
  
Here it was still pleasantly warm, although not so painfully hot, and he was glad for the ease of movement. He reached behind himself to pull his tunic away from his sweaty skin, wishing he too could sit in the pool with his Master and rinse off. Dominicus again slid into the pool and leaned against the wall, finding a ledge to sit on next to a lifelike statue of the baths’ patron and closing his eyes. His head rested on the edge so it was braced by the stone, and Matteus looked around to see the other patrons doing the same. Their slaves were standing around idly, holding their clothes in their arms and watching the trickles of water from the condensation on the walls. A few were talking in pairs, whispering to each other and hoping that they couldn’t be heard over the sound of water softly lapping at the edges of the pool.  
  
“You’re a young fellow,” a man opposite Dominicus remarked, the blonde’s eyes snapping open and his head rolling forward to see who was addressing him. “I haven’t seen you around before.”  
  
“I do not come here often,” Dominicus explained, “nor have I been in Rome very long anyway. This is quite the luxury for me.”  
  
“As it is for many of us. They increased the fees, you know.”  
  
“I did not. It is not too much of a problem, though, considering one gets such an experience from it. I enjoy myself here far too much to complain about the price.”  
  
“It’s easy for some, I suppose, with rich daddies funding their play.” Domincius’ eyebrows rose to his hairline and he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Matteus winced as he looked on.  
  
“May I ask, citizen, how old are you?”  
  
“Forty-five.”  
  
“So it has been over twenty years since you were my age. I imagine you enjoyed yourself?”  
  
“Oh, yes, certainly!” The man laughed jovially as he remembered.  
  
“You learned to love this good city of Rome and used it to your advantage, yes?”  
  
“Of course. Doesn’t every man?” Dominicus ignored the question.  
  
“And you gorged yourself on delicious food and perhaps the company of many women?”  
  
“Indeed I did! We had a right laugh, my friends and I.”  
  
“Interesting. Who paid for your endeavours, I wonder?”  
  
The man’s cheeks flushed a rosy red, and it wasn’t from the heat. Matteus bit the inside of his cheek to hide his smile.  
  
“What do you mean by this, you insolent child?” the man demanded, Dominicus biting the inside of his cheek to hide a smile.  
  
“Stop meddling in my affairs!” He began to wade through the water towards Dominicus, who held up his hands in defence.  
  
“I meant nothing sinister, citizen. I was just inquiring. I think it is important to learn about history and culture so that we can continue traditions.” He smiled politely before saying, “Come, slave, I think we must move on to the  _frigidarium_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, Dominicus went through the baths the wrong way round but I felt like the heat was a better atmosphere than the freezing cold for this sort of exchange.

**Author's Note:**

> Blaesus was a name given to people who stammered a lot or slipped in their speech. It's just a bit of a nickname.


End file.
